Fear & Loathing In South Figaro
by Xyris
Summary: [Edited/Completed] The exploits of a renegade journalist, his chocobo rancher assistant, and how the two struggled to grasp the dynamics of a world after Kefka. . .
1. Bat Country!

Fear & Loathing in South Figaro  
  
Chapter 1: Bat Country!  
  
It was somewhere close to a town call Barstow. I remember that much. It was a small trading  
  
community that sprung up overnight, its inhabitants primarily of the Mobliz breed seeking to  
  
carry on the good name and nature of those who fell at the hands of Kefka. Me and my associate,  
  
a small and bulbous chocobo rancher named Zen, had pitched camp just beyond the outskirts of  
  
town. I didn't too much favor staying at the inn in Barstow, or any inn for that matter. They  
  
always had the propensity of overcharging and privacy was practically nonexistent.  
  
Wooded glens held no such eccentricities. The staying was free, provided you brought the  
  
shelter with you. Zen had disappeared into the foliage a little earlier on but was back by nightfall  
  
with plenty of wood for the fire. I sat quietly, proofreading my latest piece ('Chimeras: Myth,  
  
Legend, or Neither?'), while my associate complacently fed the kindling and readied a hearty  
  
meal of beans and beef jerky. He never had any complaints about the work he did. Always a  
  
congenial man he was. I think he was Thamasian and that much would explain a lot.  
  
Dipping a quell into my inkwell, I quickly scribbled my name at the end of my parchment (Oh  
  
shit, I forgot! The name's Lothar Goldfist, by the way!) and strapped the article tight under the  
  
wing of a carrier pigeon. Go my little friend! Go and send your article off to the Marandian  
  
Office of Journalism, where forth our exploits will become realized and further the understanding  
  
of the pseudo-mythological chimeras who once inhabited the Thamasian highlands. . .  
  
"Did you say something, man?" Zen would say.  
  
Yawgmoth of the Nine Hells! Did I just say that out loud?  
  
"Of course not," I quickly replied, too quick to be believed. "Just contemplating the next of  
  
our possible projects."  
  
I assumed, at that point, that the rest of the night would be uneventful. I remembered seeing  
  
Zen pulling a lyre from the saddlebag on his chocobo and play what sounded like 'Aria de Mezzo  
  
Caraterre'. Typical campside tradition, I thought. No one can resist the opportunity of strumming  
  
out a tune or two while getting lost in the whimsical glow of quickly flickering flames. It was  
  
kinda how I felt when it came to being a doctor of journalism. Turning your back on an  
  
opportunity was like turning your back on a friend: do it once and they may never come your way  
  
again.  
  
Suddenly, there was a terrible roar all around us, and the cold moonlit night was full of what  
  
looked like gigantic bats, all circling and screaming and diving around the fire. Holy Jesus, I  
  
thought, and dove into my sleeping bag. I've heard of people giving their criticism towards my  
  
stories but never so often in one night and certainly never with such animals as bats. What were  
  
they trying to do? Kill me?!  
  
Zen was similarly transfixed, though he was more content with not getting rabies. He grabbed  
  
a piece of wood from the foot of the fire and began swinging it wildly around at the demonic  
  
looking blight of bats. He looked like a maniacal, torch-wielding Returner, a dark silhouette  
  
battling the minions of Ifrit in the glow of the campfire. Were we just having delusions of reality,  
  
here? Did the end of the world do such travesties to a man's train of thought? Evidently so, for  
  
suddenly Zen appeared to have caught fire! Suddenly, Zen was amongst those bats! Suddenly, the  
  
bastard WAS a bat! Suddenly...  
  
Suddenly, I realized that I had been drinking too much that night. I understood that now, yet I  
  
couldn't control these feelings of paranoia. These bad lapses of fear and loathing.  
  
"What the hell has gotten into you?" a familiar, bat-faced man asked of me.  
  
"Don't come near me!" I shouted, and scurried behind a nearby log. "You're one of them!  
  
What in the name of Palidor are you supposed to be?"  
  
"I'm your assistant, Zen!" he replied. "That stuff's gotten right on top of you, hasn't it?"  
  
"Stuff?" Yes, the stuff! I remember now. Ethers and elixirs may have a revitalizing effect on  
  
those who are magic users, but for the rest of us, the effects were far more adverse.  
  
"You took too much, man. You need some rest."  
  
"Rest?"  
  
I recoiled in terror and took the world along for the ride. As it turned out, what I had thought  
  
was a swarm of vampire bats was really another carrier pigeon. Zen sampled his meal only for a  
  
moment before checking the bird beside him for any note.  
  
"Don't!" I yelled. "It has rabies!"  
  
He ignored my warning and found that there was a note attached. He walked across the  
  
campsite and handed it to me. My name was on it but it was not in my handwriting.  
  
"I think it's from headquarters," Zen remarked.  
  
So, it was. I quickly digested the content of the letter, though I still hadn't the control of basic  
  
motor functions to divulge the idea behind the message to Zen. It wasn't until the next day that I  
  
actually had a clear enough head to speak without a slurred tone.  
  
"They want me to go and cover a press conference in South Figaro," I said upon saddling up  
  
on my chocobo. "We're to meet up with an artist from Albrook named Owzer. He'll have all the  
  
details. All we have to do is check ourselves into a suite; he'll seek us out. What do you think?"  
  
Zen, feigning professionalism, reined his ebon beast with a flippant disregard. "What's the  
  
nature of the conference?" he asked.  
  
"Something about a Falcon," I answered. "Someone finally defeated that antichrist bastard  
  
Kefka and we're to go and interview the group of men and women who were instrumental in  
  
defeating him."  
  
"Returners?"  
  
"Possibly. No mention of Banon or anything but they're as good a group of warriors as any to  
  
fall back on. Talked of bringing ruination to the Empire for quite some time."  
  
Zen nodded. "Well, as your associate, I advise you to rent out a very classy suite at the Figaro  
  
inn, preferably one that's fully stocked with inebriants."  
  
I shook my head. "But the cost. . ."  
  
"Fuck the cost!" he said. "Tell 'em it's all for the press registration. Charge the bill to  
  
headquarters in Maranda and we'll be all set."  
  
For a chocobo rancher, Zen made a lot of sense at that particular juncture. "Dually noted. But  
  
let's be careful in getting there. After all, this is bat country."  
  
As we headed out into the daybreak, something occurred to me that should have rightfully  
  
occurred to me last night.  
  
I had to get more of that ether. 


	2. Green Cherry Tonic

Fear & Loathing In South Figaro  
  
Chapter 2: Green Cherry Tonic  
  
Had the world not ended at the hands of Kefka more than a year ago, our excursion would  
  
have involved dressing up like Sherpas and scaling a hopelessly insurmountable mountain range.  
  
Thankfully, the only thing that separated us and the township of South Figaro was a two-day  
  
journey southwards, as well as the odd bat that crossed our path. There wasn't near as many in  
  
these regions. Must have gone into hibernation I thought. It was the only possible explanation.  
  
We almost missed the town completely. It was but a lone stopgap amalgamation of  
  
townhouses on the very edge of the continent, unlucky for its residents (the shoreline would eat  
  
the place up in no time). Only previous experience told us that we'd find the place. It had once  
  
been a classic refuge for The Big Soldier, an outpost of export with the underlying traces of  
  
coziness and rapport. Flippancy was the key to blending into this place, much like any other town  
  
due to the fall of Kefka.  
  
But our arrival was badly timed. Figaro's squares and byways were heavily congested with  
  
people from all over the world by the time we got there, with more pouring in by the second. We  
  
were scarcely able to get our steeds secured within the local chocobo stable without getting  
  
trampled upon. I tried scoring some special privilege off of the stable's proprietor, saying that we  
  
were here to cover the press conference. It was absolutely imperative that you throw your voice at  
  
this particular closure. Otherwise, the panorama of crowded bodies and their discordant profanity  
  
would make you fade into the background.  
  
"I said we're from the Marandian Office of Journalism!" A No-go. The bodies of the  
  
wayfarers weighed so heavily upon us now that I could almost feel my ribs cracking against the  
  
manager's kiosk. "You scurvy bastards! Me and my associate represent bodies that you cannot  
  
possibly comprehend!"  
  
"Stop yelling in my ear!" someone screamed beside me, and received a punch in the face from  
  
Zen for his efforts.  
  
"Listen!" the stableman finally yelled, "Y'all get the same privileges as everyone else! We  
  
only got so much room and there's no special stalls set aside for 'journalists'! You either share  
  
with someone else or you can try your luck out in the wilderness somewhere!"  
  
I took the way he italicized 'journalists' as provocation, but I couldn't outright slug the son of a  
  
bitch and have my stable privileges revoked. You could say what you want about the townsfolk  
  
of South Figaro, just don't say it to their faces! News travels at the speed of light in this  
  
burned-out burg of a city, and if you weren't careful, you could make South Figaro your enemy  
  
for life.  
  
We had trouble again at the inn. It was similarly obstructed with denizens around the world,  
  
though these were requesting to have a sweet nearest the saviors of our world. Crazy people!  
  
There was a couple who hailed from Tzen, apparently newlyweds, believing it would be a boon  
  
on their future family to have the blessing of these elusive 'Falcon' heros. How nostalgic.  
  
I wanted to get past this impediment as soon as possible. My blood-alcohol levels were  
  
beginning to stabilize and a drink was an order. Perhaps I could have my assistant pull his  
  
famous Attorney skit, asking everyone if they were prepared to go to court as the line gradually  
  
dissipated around us. But the vibrations of this place were getting extremely nasty, the people  
  
getting more disgruntled by the minute. Could one of even Zen's mettle hope to hold his own in  
  
this human menagerie?  
  
Enough, I thought. The line hadn't moved for the past half hour. So, I soldiered through the  
  
thicket of bodies and up to the innkeeper, a bearded gentleman with a portly physique, more so  
  
than Zen's. "Look," I said, sliding in front of the Tzen couple. I admit it was rude but I'd only be a  
  
moment. Besides, the couple were having their own problem with the innkeeper's incompetence.  
  
"Maybe me and my assistant could just slip in here right fast and get out of your way. We're  
  
journalists from Maranda. The names are Lothar Goldfist and Zen Ravenwood."  
  
Part of me knew that our names were practically inconsequential. It was almost certain that  
  
Maranda would have no reservation for us, although they ought to. This was, after all, a very  
  
ominous assignment. I had no idea that overtones of extreme personal danger would be a factor  
  
until I felt my torso buckle at the hands of all the commoners. Miraculously, me and my assistant  
  
lucked out.  
  
"Goldfist and Ravenwood!" The innkeeper rang his bell. "Raoul, help these gentlemen with  
  
their bags. Is there anything I can have room service send up to you?"  
  
The couple from Tzen merely stood there behind us with jaws agape. I suddenly feared the  
  
worst, that I was going to inspire the others to storm this pour duo of their chance to get to their  
  
room some time tonight.  
  
"Send up a bottle of pre-Imperial Thamasian vintage," Zen rebutted, tossing his duffle to the   
  
bellhop.  
  
"And make sure it's on ice," I added, "The bellhop's gonna need it to keep it cold by the time  
  
he's able to make it to our room."  
  
The innkeeper gave a dismissive look to the growing tide of others. "Absolutely. Don't you  
  
too worry about a thing. If you need anything else, don't hesitate to ring for room service. The  
  
name's Rufus."  
  
He promptly handed me our key which I gave to Zen, all the while saying that I'd be back  
  
from the bar at around midnight. "By the way," I said to the innkeeper before leaving, "Thanks  
  
for helping us out! You're a real chere, you know that?"  
  
Rufus only grinned. "Lookin' forward to reading your article on the chimeras, Mr. Goldfist."  
  
I winked and left for the bar. I felt guilty, both for the innkeeper and the Tzen couple, for each  
  
party would have a gigantic goddamn pack of cranky humans to deal with. Lucklily, a little  
  
alcohol would suppress the contrition, as well as any other uncertainties I may have been feeling  
  
at the time. Along the way to the tavern, I heard the odd vagrant muttering about when our  
  
deliverers would arrive. It wasn't to happen until some time tomorrow afternoon. I could wait  
  
until then. Just put out the vibe at the bar, I thought. Maybe the night would help precipitate the  
  
wait for tomorrow.  
  
The bar of South Figaro was an in-vogue type of place, though not quite as trendy as a tavern  
  
you'd find somewhere like Kohilegen or Albrook. It held a certain robust ambience, with formica  
  
and sailcloth paintings of the late Emperor Gestahl. Second-hand smoke rose to facilitate a  
  
noticeable canopy of fog just above the craps table from the cigars of hopeless gamblers. I must  
  
have looked like a vagabond the way I strolled in, but I was never able to explain myself in these  
  
climates. My blood was far too thick for this town.  
  
The bartender was a young and voluptuous siren with locks that seemed almost ruby in the  
  
glow of the dim amber lighting. She looked like a caricature of Czarina Sasha, Emperor Gestahl's  
  
extremely late Empress, though her beauty remained unfazed. Even in the presence of this stale  
  
Figaro saloon, she looked my way and smiled endearingly. "What can I getcha, stud?"  
  
I smiled back. "A tonic if you please! Make it a double!"  
  
At least I had begun to make more friends here than I did back in the stables. Before long, I  
  
blurted out the fact that I was a doctor of journalism, at which point another barstool pigeon  
  
chirped into the conversation. I recognized him as the editor of Hard Times, a magazine that was  
  
inspired by the coming of the World of Ruin. Its bimonthly installments were well-written,  
  
admittedly, but far too morbid for my taste. Its mandate, it seemed, was the distribution of  
  
despair.  
  
I had a right mind to punch him.  
  
"Mr. Goldfish, isn't it?"  
  
"Goldfist," I corrected, snorting. "And you must be Ripley."  
  
"That I am!" he said, sounding genuinely proud of himself. "And I must say that it's always an  
  
honor to meet such a passionate journalist as yourself."  
  
I turned my back to him. "Wish I could say the same."  
  
This, I am happy to say, dampened what was originally his lighthearted demeanor. The guy  
  
must have thought that he could get off Veldt-free when he realized that all of his  
  
presuppositions of woe and isolation were proven incorrect with the defeat of Kefka. I, on the  
  
other hand, would not grant him the luxury of enjoying the fallacies he cast upon this sad and  
  
destitute world.   
  
Hell, I had just spent the past ten minutes trying to prompt him against asking whatever  
  
questions he had arranged to ask our paladins tomorrow afternoon! He seemed not to care,  
  
though he ought to for all the misery he had been spreading around the world. He had been  
  
giving us all the impression that our lives we're over when, in truth, they we're only just  
  
beginning. So, I merely sat there quietly, nodding and smiling to his fool allegations of once  
  
being a rogue explorer. Wasn't anything I hadn't heard before (I HAVE read his articles),  
  
although it was all extremely interesting when I was already half-drunk on tonic with Green  
  
Cherries on the side.  
  
Ah, Green Cherries! Always a popular dare amongst the common-day pub crawlers. Too  
  
many and you begin to exhibit the characteristics of a turtleback imp, but just enough, and the  
  
alcoholic bliss hits you like Ragnarok. You couldn't get out of it even if you wanted to. Things  
  
begin to happen that you wouldn't ordinarily experience. I have friends who said that the wall  
  
around them melted and nearly drowned them. Your judgment clouds, your organized thought  
  
wanes, and you become a prisoner to your own dilatory world of pure alcoholism.  
  
I turned back to my fellow/fool Hard Times editor. He was still talking about his traveling  
  
adventures(?), but they seemed to sound more garbled than before. Maybe it was just my Green  
  
Cherry Tonic taking its effect on me, or maybe it was his taking an effect on him. Whatever the  
  
reason, things began to get more and more incoherent. I ultimately abandoned all attention and  
  
commentary from Ripley for the vision of true loveliness serving drinks at the far end of the  
  
tavern. Maybe she'd make more sense.  
  
Sweet Jesus! She was an imp!  
  
I staggered back, trying to find a grip on the moment, or at least a grip on something that  
  
would stop me from falling off my barstool. But it was to no avail and I stumbled to the floor, my  
  
arms pinwheeling. Had she inadvertently eaten too many of those Green Cherries also? She was  
  
muttering something to me, but it was gibberish. I grabbed the shoulders of the nearest spectator,  
  
trying to make him understand the gravity of the situation, that we needed to get a herbalist down  
  
here on the double.  
  
Beady eyes! The fucker had beady eyes, and sporting a coat of green, scaly skin. These  
  
characteristics, I realized, were synonymous with the initial stages of imp transformation. There  
  
was no point in denying it any further. I was in the middle of a fucking Green Cherry epidemic,  
  
and someone was actually giving cigars to these goddamn animals. It wouldn't be long now  
  
before they tore us to shreds.  
  
"Someone get some remedies down here!!" I yelled. "Otherwise, we'll never make it out of  
  
here alive!"  
  
But by now, everyone all around me was an imp, though they never attacked me at first, only  
  
looked at me with inquiring eyes. They were probably wondering if I was worthy to attack or  
  
only maim. As a last desperate act of the weak, I swung a fist. It struck home, knocking the  
  
Ripley imp off of his barstool. The others seem to recoil from my sudden effusion of strength.  
  
That'll show 'em! That'll teach 'em that they can't fiddle with Goldfist and get away with it.  
  
"Boss?"  
  
"Who's your boss!!!" I roared, putting up my dukes. "Take me to your leader!! Now!!"  
  
I couldn't help but wonder who owned that voice. It carried a familiar chime...wait, I knew  
  
that voice! Yes, it was Zen! Zen had come to rescue me!  
  
"Zen!!"  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
I pivoted one-eighty and gasped. What I expected would be a pudgy-jowled, blue-eyed  
  
chocobo rancher turned out to be a raving and jabbering Zen imp. I leaped into his arms, looking  
  
around wide-eyed at the others. They seemed to be moving in.  
  
"We can't stay here!" I lamented. "It's too late for them! We have to save ourselves!"  
  
But as it turned out, we were not entirely exempt from the imps' rain of terror. Out of the blue,  
  
one of them grabbed a wine bottle in their chubby little digit and smacked me over the head with  
  
it. Was it the end for me and my adventures of journalism. If it was, well, I had no regrets. But if  
  
it wasn't, then I'd have to make a mental note for future reference. It may as well be tattooed  
  
across my forehead.  
  
Don't feed me Green Cherry Tonic after midnight. . . 


	3. The Big Day

Fear & Loathing in South Figaro  
Chapter 3: The Big Day  
  
I remembered waking in the midst of hearing some two-bit rendition of an old Marandian  
folk song and I thought to myself 'What kind of rat bastard psychotic would play Too Hot To  
Cactrot at that particular moment in time?'. I was busy battling withdrawal, here! Withdrawal, as  
any drunkard or druggie will tell you, is a very painful process. There's no finite beginning or end  
to the pain in your head and you're constantly struggling to reclaim memories from whatever  
binge episode you were engaged in the previous day, or night, or in my case only a few hours ago.  
  
I was sprawled out on my bed in our room at the Figaro inn. The Marandian tunes were  
emanating from an old transistor radio across the threshold of our large and (almost) luxious  
suite. Zen was over by the door, waiting placidly for the guy from room service to finish  
unloading his order of club sandwiches and Hoover burgers from a nearby trolley. How are we  
supposed to afford all of that, I thought? Ah yes. Headquarters was paying for it.  
  
Or so we thought.  
  
I offered no appraisal of the situation. I was busy musing over the green swirling vortex  
above my bed. Cool. A tear in the fabric of space-time. I wondered what was on the other side of  
it. The esper world? The master of the simulacrum? The Phantom Train waiting to take me to the  
Hereafter? The bellhop, somewhat disturbed from my delirious juxtaposition, hurried along his  
room service routine so that he could leave as soon as possible. With that, Zen confronted me.  
  
"Don't get too close," I warned him, gesturing to the whirlpool overhead, "It might be a  
ploy from those goddamn imps. They're trying to fool us with curiosity. I know it."  
  
He shook his head sadly. "Man, I can't leave you alone for five minutes before the  
manager comes along and tells me your down in bar screamin' your fool head off about giant  
turtleback imps!"  
  
I raised an inquisitive brow. "What are you talking about?"  
  
He gave me a cantankerous sigh. "You scared the shit out of those people, man! They  
were ready to call security! Yes, sir! You're lucky I came back when I did!"  
  
"No security left," I heard myself say, "They've all fallen prey to the epidemic."  
  
Zen ignored me. "Sure, the only reason the manager gave us those press passes for the  
conference was to get you out of there, man That shit's makin' you paranoid!"  
  
I tried to remember just what it was I had done. Unfortunately, the juices of the Green  
Cherries were still running strong in my system, obstructing my memory. "What do you mean?  
All I was doing was engaging in some friendly conversation with a fellow journalist."  
  
My assistant crossed his arms in a malcontent fashion. "Yeah, well that 'fellow journalist'  
of yours is now up in his suite recovering from a broken nose."  
  
Did I do that? Jesus! Talk about exercising your right mind!  
  
My associate was in the process of asking his next question when suddenly there was a  
knock at the door. Must be the imps, back to perpetuate the pestilence which had broken out  
down in the bar several hours earlier. I pulled the bed covers over me, hoping that this awful drug  
provided me with a high enough serotonin level to sleep out our assimilation, as well as whatever  
cosmic terror the whirlpool over my bed was going to bring about.  
  
Zen, in the meantime, grabbed his crossbow, an old Samantra prototype that employed a  
fine, flat trajectory with quicksilver arrows. He crossed the room and held it against the door, ever  
so cautious as to who it could be at such a late hour. The rancher pulled the door open a crack  
and an overweight, blond-haired man with a black painter's beret poked his face in. "Hi," he said.  
His voice was almost nonsensical, with his buxom cheeks being trapped between the door and the  
frame. "I'm Owzer. I'm the artist that hired you?"  
  
Momentarily, Zen closed the door to uncouple the latch. Owzer waddled in, only just  
missing the crossbow which Zen stowed back into his duffle. He was calling my name out loud.  
"Goldfist? Goldfist...hi!" he cried, catching sight of me. He laughed in a jovial manner that made  
his shoulders jostle. "Enjoying your stay, I hope! We gotta big day tomorrow, huh? Wait until you  
hear their testimony of the battle with Lord Kefka. Man! You'd never believe it! Ultima blasts,  
chain saws, lightning bolts. . ."  
  
It went on like this. To Zen, Owzer was nothing but a very large man who carried the faint  
redolence of acrylic paint on his clothes and garlic on his breath. Yet, I could almost read how  
passionate the man's dreams were just by looking into his glistening, stormcloud eyes. It struck  
me as funny why an artist of all the people called upon us to take on this assignment. The gross  
overall appraisal of this mission was that the statements offered to us from the slayers of Kefka  
would undoubtably go down in history.  
  
Was this truly the break we were waiting for?  
  
". . .couple of close calls here and there," Owzer continued, "And then, good old Locke  
Cole delivers the Coupe de Gras with an expertly timed swipe of his Illumina. You'd never believe  
such a story until you've heard it from them."  
  
Silence ensued for a short while later. I wanted to be professional at this juncture, to  
reassure the man before us that we were the ones most suited for the job. These wonderful  
psychedelics, however, were still doing a number on the chemistry of my brain. At the very least, I  
managed to stand, saying something like, "Well, I never believed in chimeras before I took the job  
in northern Thamasa. Who knows? If I can believe one half-cocked story, I suppose I could be  
taught to believe another."  
  
That's what my sentence sounded like, at least, that's what I HOPE it sounded like.  
Apparently I got through to him, for three seconds later he had his hand outstretched, offering me  
the best of luck for tomorrow. I accepted the gesture, planting a kiss on the man's hand in  
closing. Mother of God! What a fool I must have been! Well, the gesture was a sign of good  
fellowship at any rate, for we were both the top mines of our profession. To be brutally honest, I  
was actually looking forward to seeking his artistic conception of the Returners tomorrow.  
  
"I'm telling you," Zen interjected once Owzer was gone, "He's hiding something! I can  
see it in his eyes."  
  
"Eyes?"  
  
My friend, the conspiracy theorist! We closed the night with a toast to new beginnings, for  
it very well could be just that if our chips were played right. How wonderful these wines do taste  
when you know that they had been bottled prior to the whole doomstruck era of Gestahl. I do not  
wish to further divulge into the details of my associate's suspicion regarding Owzer for reasons  
that need not be explained here. Of course, anyone in our position would be inclined to have  
'some' uncertainties when it came to trusting a struggling artisan who did nude paintings for a  
living. But what are two struggling post-renaissance men in a renaissance world supposed to do?  
  
***  
  
Daylight that morning did nothing for my hangover, though it wasn't anything that a little  
coffee couldn't fix. I must have been the first one up, for the streets were bare when I finally  
ambled out of the inn. Funny for such a momentous occasion about to take part in our world's  
history. Oh well, I'd wait. There was little else to do. I had no side projects to work on (unless, of  
course, you considered 'Zozo's 101 practical uses of chocobo dung' work!).  
  
I still remembered the atmosphere of that midsummer day. The sun was a brilliant crimson  
disk on the eastern seaboard. Tendrils of sunlight poked fingers through large hovering cumulus  
clouds. Those who were unable to get a room at the inn (and there were many) were left to the  
laughable comfort of sleeping in the piazzas and bathing in the brooks like a sort of anti-Imperial  
hippy movement. Nothing new, I thought to myself.  
  
I've seen it all before with the Returners.  
  
We were all gathered here to witness this very special moment in the history of might and  
magic, despite the insistence of others that 'magic' had ultimately been exiled from this plain of  
existence. Zen was over at the stables. He had unfinished business to settle with the proprietor of  
the place, and I was certain many others had similar sentiments toward that bastard stableman. He  
would be joining me later. Until then, it was just me and an indeterminate ratio of locals and  
tourists, waiting in eager anticipation for our saviors in the Figaro sun.  
  
The darkness dawned on us suddenly, like an eclipse that encompassed the entire town.  
Everyone, even I, was in awe. It took us all a long while for our eyes to refocus on the blimp  
looming down out of the heavens. It was a long propellered craft with all the esoteric earmarks of  
a vessel forged by the hands of dreamers. It's elliptical golden exoskeleton glimmered in the early  
morning rays. Secured below was what looked to be the body of a small wooden schooner, its  
landing gear lowering every so gradually as it descended into a wood glen just outside Figaro.  
  
Despite the caffeine and alcohol that was infusing an unhealthy marriage in my head, I  
knew this was no hallucination. They had come, and South Figaro was alive with shouts and  
cheers and deafening war whoops. I couldn't help but participate in the celebration. These kind-  
hearted folk, whoever they were, had saved me just as much as they had saved everyone else.  
Well then, Mr. Goldfist, I guess that means it's time to pull out the big guns for this story. It's the  
least you can do for them.  
  
Alright. Enough of this prattle. It was showtime.  
  
"Make way, you monkey swine!" I yelled over the rowdy spectators. I was practically  
bodysurfing my way through the mob. The once-lacking attendance down in Figaro square was  
now in full swing. The idea of trying to cover the arrival in any conventional press sense was  
absurd. "I said make way, goddamn you!"  
  
I pulled my way up past the encumbrances of cramped bodies and onto the piazza where  
the Returners were pouring out from the deck of the Falcon. Guards lined the makeshift  
barricades but flashing them my press pass got them out of the way instantly. Ripley was there  
also, though he recoiled instantly at the sight of me. I did likewise. The tourniquet in the middle of  
his face said that his nose was hemorrhaging if not dismembered completely.  
  
And now came the time to demonstrate proper decorum and etiquette. You never get a second  
chance to make a first impression, especially with paladins. Aside from the mayor I was the first  
one to shake their hands. They were a motley team, consisting of ex-Imperials, a moogle, a yeti,  
even the Figaro brothers themselves. Even now, I wonder how they saw a fellow journalist like  
myself. I was but a hired geek. I couldn't have meant that much in their eyes.  
  
"And you must be Mr. Goldfist!" said a strong, blond-haired individual. I was, needless to say,  
speechless. The notion of a trailworn relic hunter of all people recognizing a doctor of journalism  
was more than unusual in my books. "I've followed a lot of your work."  
  
My brow creased. "Really?"  
  
"Oh yeah," he said, "I still remember that little piece you published back in Kohilegen. You  
know! That bit you did on the Phoenix Cave? It actually helped me find the esper. Taught me one  
hell of a lesson, too!"  
  
I sighed happily. I was going to make a field day out of this one.  
  
***  
  
"That artisan gentleman holds you in high esteem." Locke and I were in the bar. The manager  
let me back in on a probationary basis and for some reason they never served Green Cherries at all  
the whole time I was conducting my interview. "You're amongst the upper echelon of the whole  
lot. Would you mind explaining why?"  
  
"Because I delivered the crushing blow," he replied, laughing in retrospect. The answer  
sounded familiar, as if someone had disclosed it before. "In all seriousness, though, Owzer  
instilled me with trust since I protected one of his most valued possessions. A painting of his if I  
remember correctly. I used to be like him once, always putting up a fuss over material things."  
  
"But your reputation as a treasure hunter precedes you, Mr. Cole. Are you insinuating that you  
are no longer a treasure hunter?"  
  
Idly, he sipped his drink, a non-alcoholic beverage of some sort. "Well, I'm not gonna lie to  
you, Lothar, if I may call you that." I nodded, eager to get everything he said down on my  
notepad. "I DO miss the adventure and all, but there's just no need or demand for such exploits  
anymore, now that Kefka has been defeated. Besides, I've already found the most valuable  
treasure in the world."  
  
"What might that be?"  
  
With his chin, he gestured to a lovely young ex-Imperial whom I had met a little earlier on, the  
one named Celes Chere. Currently, she was busy learning a card trick or two from the gambler of  
the group. According to Mr. Cole, she had been forcibly infused with magic as a child by the late  
Empire. How he had taught a general of all people to trust the Returners was a small miracle in  
itself. It all made for a very interesting tale but it was going to take time. A 'lot' of time.  
  
"We first met in this very town where she was tried as a traitor and sentenced to death. I never  
thought that there could be anything between us because we came from such different worlds. Of  
course, I was always. . ."  
  
But I had already lost interest in the topic of conversation. I guess it was because I wasn't  
satisfied with his answer to my previous question. 'There's just no need or demand for such  
exploits anymore' had been his exact words. I didn't understand it. Locke and I were stars of the  
same constellation. We had both traveled the world over looking for the grounds which explained  
why this world had turned out the way it did. Suddenly, it was as if treasure hunting didn't matter  
anymore.  
  
Suddenly, it was as if 'journalism' didn't matter anymore.  
  
Poor Locke. He must have been talking for at least fifteen minutes before he realized that no  
one was listening to him. He just missed me; my mind was a million miles away. I was a doctor of  
present day journalism, even mythological journalism, but not one of love. I never paid any mind  
to relationships. They were, in all fairness, death traps conceptualized by antsy homo sapiens who  
were bent only on perpetuating the species.  
  
My kingdom for some Green Cherries right now.  
  
The interview continued despite my train of thought inadvertently derailing. At some point  
along the line, the interviewee requested to have the general involved into the piece, a piece which  
was strictly for Locke Cole. Mustn't have been party to many interviews I suppose. He may have  
been a veteran to exploring but as far as the dynamics of journalism itself was concerned, he was  
but a hopeless rookie.  
  
"We're almost done," I said, tossing out an empty inkwell and producing another from my  
sash. "I'll interview Celes just as soon as we're through here, okay."  
  
Keep your cool with this gentleman, I said to myself. He 'did' save the world and he 'is' a fan  
of your work. Just roll with the punches so you can interview these two people and get out of  
here some time tonight. I made a call for another tonic. The bartender was the exact same woman  
as it had been last night, though she never acknowledged me at first. Probably still upset from the  
show I had put on the other day.   
  
After a lot of noise, Locke offered to pay for the drink himself, provided I hurry along the  
questions I was asking him and move on to Celes. Apparently, there was a certain bent appeal for  
the star-struck lover in seeing their sweetheart answer questions regarding their life and  
allegiance, as if they needed constant reassurance. It wasn't something I'd ever figure out. Maybe  
the two of them just wanted to get these questions over with so that they could spend more time  
with each other.  
  
"Celes Chere!" I cried, concluding the treasure hunter's interview. She smiled and got up from  
where she was sitting at a slot machine next to the silver-haired gambler. "Nice to see you again!  
You're all Locke talks about, you know that?"  
  
She laughed and sat down beside me. Locke stood up and said that he'd go and play some  
slots with Setzer (the gambler, no doubt). Of course, it was no where so far that he wouldn't be  
able to overhear the interview.   
  
"Well, first thing's first," I said, flipping to a new piece of paper, "What's your full name and  
birthplace?"  
  
She made a quick order for a drink before answering. "Celes Maria Chere of Vector. I'm  
nineteen years old. Wanna know my measurements, too?"  
  
Alright! I admit it! She was a ravishing woman, despite her reputation as a cold-hearted  
Magitek knight. Pretty much everything any heterosexual man would give their soul for, though  
she was one who could break more than your heart. Even now. But I knew women, and they  
could be potentially fatal milestones around the necks of the wrong men. Especially this one.  
  
I drew a smile from her quip. "That won't be necessary. So, tell me something. The whole  
world is curious. You're amongst the last of the Imperial breed. Would you say you were fighting  
Lord Kefka more as a General of the late Empire or as a Returner with your cohorts?"  
  
"That's a difficult question to answer." She took a hearty swig of her tonic. "I suppose you  
could consider me both. I mean, I knew Kefka. He always had a bit of an inferiority complex. He  
killed the Emperor for Odin's sake!"  
  
"He killed Gestahl?!" This just kept getting better, didn't it? "I'm sorry," I said, "Go on. You  
were saying?"  
  
"Right. Well, I guess in the heat of such an important battle, you don't think of that kind of  
thing. We did it because we had to, not because we wanted to. From an Empire sense, though, I  
was doing what any Imperial soldier would do to one being insubordinate. And from a Returner's  
sense, I was doing it because it was what Banon stood for. So, for Gestahl, it was honor. For  
Banon, it was freedom."  
  
I quickly scribbled her words down, almost capsizing the inkwell on the counter in the process.  
This was good stuff. "Interesting analogy. Maybe there's a future for you in journalism."  
  
She smiled. "Really? Well, thank-you."  
  
I noticed from the expression on her face that Celes' mind was wrapping around the possibility  
of selecting a future profession. I knew. I was a student of human nature after all. She wanted  
anything that didn't involve fighting. She had done quite enough of that as it is. Pure Laguna  
Loire, I thought. A fighter gone journalist.  
  
"Moving right along," I remarked, turning the page. "What are your feelings toward the late  
General Leo. What's your affiliation with him?"  
  
A long and uncomfortable pause followed. Was that the red button?   
  
"No comment." she said at last.  
  
I instantly apologized for my question. "Was that something I shouldn't have asked?"  
  
She leaned forward. "It's nothing I can talk about with Locke around. Perhaps we should go  
somewhere else and talk."  
  
I detected a tryst, though it was nothing I could openly agree to at first. A secret rendezvous  
with a Returner while the rest were unaware wasn't an easy thing to execute.  
  
"I'm not really sure I can," I admitted. "It is very late and I still have to go and check on my  
assistant. You know how things are. I gotta make sure the poor fucker doesn't get lost in this  
place. Maybe we could pick this thing up again tomorrow."  
  
I moved to leave but she took hold of my arm. "Please? I'd really like to get this off my chest  
tonight if possible. Think about it. If you take care of this tonight, then it's one less interviewee  
you have to take care of tomorrow."  
  
Indeed, she had the makings of young journalist imbued in everything she said. Such a clever  
and articulate young lady with her entire life ahead of her. How could I not agree to her terms  
after she displayed such tenacity in revealing whatever skeletons were still in her closet.  
  
"Alright," I said, shrugging, "Shall we say in an hour or so?"  
  
"Okay."  
  
"Where should we meet?"  
  
"I would have recommended the Falcon but the other Returners would have probably turned in  
by then. I don't suppose you have a room at the inn, do you?"  
  
I remember consciously telling myself that she was spoken for and that I had to keep things  
professional despite my sudden tryst with these savagely enticing drugs. Without giving a second  
thought to my assistant, I conceded.  
  
"Room 32," I subconsciously said, "Shouldn't take too long. I don't have many other  
questions to ask you after the whole General Leo enigma."  
  
She smiled at me prior to heading back over with the gambler and treasure hunter. "What  
could happen? I mean, It's not like you're a raging druggie or anything."  
  
***  
  
I felt raped. With that one last closing remark, the general had figured out everything that had  
become my life in the past forty-eight hours. But I remained stable despite the possibility that she  
may have possibly found out my secret shame. Get a grip. Maintain. It was only meant as a joke.  
It wasn't as if the sudden revival of freedom would help me inspire some crude generation of  
ether-inhaling and Green Cherry Tonic binging.  
  
Or would it?  
  
I went to the Item Shop before heading over to the stables and see how my assistant was  
faring with the stableman. I needed a writing stylus. Feathered quills were beginning to give me  
hand cramps. As well, another pad of paper would be an order. I had only interviewed five people  
in total between those at the bar and those at the mayor's house where the actual conference had  
taken place. That meant there was only nine more Returners to harangue with my polling before  
returning to Maranda and basking in the glory of my exclusive story.  
  
It didn't seem that anything could go wrong with this day. Then, I made it to the chocobo  
stable and everything changed.  
  
Complete and total disarray. Several of the chocobos in the very back of the building were  
squealing, although whether it was from fear or injury I could only speculate. The cupric tang of  
blood hung in the air. Most notably, there was no stableman behind the desk, just a heap of hay  
and scattered coinage. Who could perpetrate such a heinous crime? There didn't appear to be any  
possible motive for killing or even kidnaping the proprietor of this place. He was a cranky son of a  
bitch, admittedly, but certainly not dangerous.  
  
Jesus God Almighty! Was Zen responsible for this?! Impossible! No, Zen! Not now, not when  
my career is so excruciatingly close to peaking! Did he go back to the inn? Was that his refuge  
from the law (what law?) until it all blew over? But what of Celes? She was probably on her way  
over there right now!  
  
Something bad was going to become of this. I was sure of it. . . 


	4. DiversionEscape

Fear & Loathing in South Figaro  
Chapter Four: Diversion/Escape  
  
What mind wouldn't be ablaze at such a vital juncture in one's career? Our reputation as  
journalists on a mission were sure to degrade now. Murderers, they'd scream! Slanderers of Odin!  
Prepare for the Great Beyond! No. Get a grip, man! There was still time! The first place which I  
believed Zen had found sanctuary was back at the inn. It was the only place the man had  
credentials besides the livery (though the livery was now more of a murder scene than anything  
else). If I was lucky, I would be able to get to him before he painted anymore of the town red.  
  
It had been hours since the festivities had first kicked off but Figaro was still celebrating. I  
sensed as much. It was not a hamlet that was known for going quietly into the night, especially the  
day after the world had been saved. I could see rowdy Returner acolytes dancing mindlessly in the  
dim glow of ornamental lanterns, wavering like foxfire in the moonlight. Laughter cavorted  
around the various twists and turns I took to get back to the inn. And these faces, ever so  
frivolous in their newfound freedom, were taking on hideous mutations in the streetlight.  
  
"Happened in Zozo." The words of a reporter to some naysayer, several paces shy of the door  
to the Figaro Inn, "Yeah, they chopped its goddamn head off right there in the square for  
everyone to see. Sucked its blood out, they did! They took something from the corpse, too. I  
think it was the adrenaline gland."  
  
What the fuck was he talking about? I picked the word 'esper' out of the conversation as well.  
Had one of their kind fallen prey to some twisted victimization in The Forbidden City? What a  
scoop, but the adrenaline gland? Evidently, the fall of Kefka was generating more problems than  
what existed before the ruination. A new generation of demons was on the rise now, and they  
didn't need swords or magic to claim their victims. All they needed was a curious mind.  
  
* * *  
  
The halls within were barren. Very tense. Zen must have scarred everyone away. Part of me  
was hoping that someone would be there to impede me from the inevitable nightmare I'd find  
behind the narrow door of room 32. Obstructions, of course, were never around when you needed  
them the most. I ambled up the stairs precariously, pouring sweat all the while. Not too fast, I told  
myself. I didn't want to risk stirring a panic amongst the other patriots of the inn.  
  
I must have fumbled with the latch for at least ten minutes. It wasn't locked but there was  
something wedged up behind it. I soon found that it was one of those trolleys our bellhop used to  
deliver his entrees. What was HIS fate? Somehow, I shouldered my way through this hindrance,  
only to go sprawling head over feet into a humid humor of hell. The brisk night air, emanating  
from several shattered window panes, hit me like an Ultima blast.  
  
The room, much like the stables, was a complete mess. Tables were overturned. Lamps were  
smothered with articles of clothing, giving the room a dark Fanatic nuance. Food was plastered all  
up along the walls with shards of their dishes embedded in the drywall. Cigarette burns mottled  
the bed sheets and rugs while coconut husks and crushed honeydew rinds littered the bureaus and  
shelves and mattresses.  
  
I paid no mind to it at all. I was hearing music.  
  
"Raven!" His nickname. No answer. "Raven, as in RAVing, drunkEN fool! Raven!"  
  
I found him in the bathroom. He was slouched in the tub, clothes still on as he waded through  
a cauldron of water that was redolent of ginseng bath salts he probably picked up down in the  
giftshop. He was fumbling with that same transistor radio off to the side, propped onto an  
upturned wastebasket. He was mumbling incoherently to himself, though I never would have  
imagined that high-grade psychedelics were the cause of all this. He had never touched the stuff  
before in his life. What had prompted him to do this to himself?  
  
"Jesus," I uttered, only too aware of how close the fucker was to electrocuting himself. "What  
the fuck did you. . .no, don't touch that! Christ, man! You'll fuck yourself up even worse!"  
  
With enough subtlety, I was able to liberate the radio from his grasp. It was then that I took  
admonition of the unhealthy heap of empty ether bottles stacked up against the far wall of the  
bathroom. My heart sank. "Oh God," I heard myself say, "Did you drink all that ether?"  
  
"That's right." The first tangible thing he said all night.  
  
I genuflected. "You'd better pray to God there's some Antidote in that haversack of yours.  
Otherwise, you're in bad fucking trouble!"  
  
"Mu-sik, man! Turn that radio on!"  
  
I ignored him. "We're here to work, goddamn it! I didn't expect to come back up here to see  
you beat the mortal shit out of yourself right there in that fucking tub. I oughta. . ."  
  
He began thrashing wildly about in the cistern, the olive-tinted water splashing onto the floor  
with every oscillation. The radio, still in my hands, was also still plugged into the wall socket. If  
that wasn't bad enough, I suddenly found that he was wielding a razor-sharp Blossom dagger in  
his left hand. Not good. Fuck bad vibrations. This was a goddamn earthquake!  
  
"Alright! Alright! I'll do it!" I cried, and fiddled with the knobs. "Just tell me what happened  
back at the stables. You didn't kill that poor bastard, did you?"  
  
"Oh, man," he groaned, struggling through Hell's Creation to straighten his head, "Was he  
scared. . .didn't kill 'em, though. . .wouldn't let me. . .shoulda castrated that fucker. . .and that  
other fucker. . .King whatsisname, King. . .wait!" He slumped down in the tub, his chin just above  
the waterline. "I just heard this rad tune, man. Go back." My brow furrowed in confusion. He  
began roaring. "BACK, MAN!! BACK, BACK, BACK!!"  
  
"For fuck's sake, man!" My fingers fondled the tuning mechanism and it seemed to calm him  
down. The pacifying melody of some arcane moogle sonata materialized through the static,  
nipping an almost fated skirmish in the bud. "There. Is that better?" No answer, but at the very  
least he was done raving about neutering any patriarchs. "Look, do me a favor, would you? Can  
you just give me an hour? One hour, man. That's all I ask. When I'm done conducting my  
interview, you're free to wallow around in self pity until your heart's content."  
  
"Mr. Goldfist?" I grimaced. It was the petite young voice of a curious Celes Chere. The   
knocks on the door seemed to parallel the beat of my heart, particularly the long pauses between.  
"Mr. Goldfist, are you there? I'm ready for that interview, now. Is it a bad time? Mr. Goldfist. . ."  
  
I panicked. What was she to say if she came in and saw the disorder of the room and a  
hopelessly narcoticized chocobo rancher in the bathtub? No alibi would hold up in court, nor  
would any (real) attorney defend us. Maybe if I had five or ten minutes to tidy the place up a bit, I  
could be off the hook and back in Maranda by Tuesday. Now, it might have been more productive  
to just abandon the story and work on my last will and testament.  
  
"Just a minute!" I shouted, tear-assing around the room to clean up the fruit residue and  
setting tables right-side-up. "I'm undressed!"  
  
Straightening up the room in the short span of five seconds had been no problem. But it would  
prove to be very difficult for one to try and keep an ether-binged maniac quiet while  
simultaneously conducting a very important Returner interview. When the room appeared clean  
enough to pass a sweep inspection, I uncoupled the latch on the door and let the general in. I  
suppose I should have squinted through the peephole beforehand to make sure she was alone. The  
last thing I needed was a score of Returners discovering that drug fiends were the ones who were  
recording their excursions.  
  
My knuckles were white from clutching the stylus. The interviewee sat herself down at the  
table I had set out for the questioning. A good sign to say the least. It meant she was comfortable  
enough with the environs to conclude this whole thing. After a minute's hesitation, I found my  
common sense and followed suit. "Alright then," I began, inking the pen tip, "Yes, I believe the  
last thing we clued up on was General Leo. . ."  
  
YARIEYAI!!!!!!!  
  
Celes seemed to shrink in her chair from the sudden clamor. "What was that?" she said.  
  
"What was what?" I asked as innocently as I could.  
  
"You had to have heard that," she pressed. "I think it came from the bathroom."  
  
"Oh him," I finally said, fumbling for an excuse. "Ignore him. He's just a plumber. Go on. You  
were saying."  
  
"Well, I became a general when I was seventeen," she started, pausing for me to take down  
everything she said. "At that time, General Leo offered to take me under his wing and give me  
some field experience because up until then, I had done very little training outside Vector."  
Another pause. "Then one day, when one of the general's battalions was camped just outside of  
Thamasa, he and I were going over battle formations in his tent. We were debating over the  
efficiency of the pincer formation. . .when he kissed me."  
  
But of course he did. I 'knew' she did. All of it hinged on her finally telling me, so I wasn't the  
least bit surprised when she finally broke the ice. I was in the middle of asking her something else,  
another question which further raised the bar on the whole love triangle, when Zen let out an  
agonizing screech from back in the bathroom. "Well, it seems to me that Locke Cole. . .SHIT,  
HE'S KILLING HIMSELF!"  
  
At first, I thought he had probably cut an ear off by mistake. His mind was hopelessly twisted  
from the ether, so there was more than an inside chance of him cutting himself with that goddamn  
knife. Without giving a second thought to Celes, I bolted up from the table and burst in through  
the bathroom door. To my horror, Zen was splayed over the rim of the tub swinging the metal  
shower rod at the radio. He looked as though he were on the verge of some terrible, psychotic  
orgasm.  
  
"Don't, man!" I yelled, wrestling for control over the shower rod. Only in ripping the shaft of  
steel from his grip did he do a three-sixty in the tub and give the shower curtain a pitch.  
Profanities tumbled out over his tongue, one after the other. "You're one toke over the goddamn  
line there, man! You need to just snack on some Blues or something and calm the fuck down!"  
  
"No! I can't! If I do, I'll lose the tune!" I glanced over at the radio. It was now playing 'Aria de  
Mezzo Caraterre' in a full philharmonic variance. "Do something for me, man! When Maria hits  
her next E-flat, I want you to take that radio and throw it into the fucking tub! Hurry it up, man!"  
  
"Fuck, Zen! You've gone completely sideways, man! Sure, I'd do it if it was a 110 or 220 volt  
radio, but shit, a transistor will blow you right through the goddamn wall! You'd be stone dead in  
ten seconds! Hell, they'd make me explain everything!"  
  
There was the sound of a door being flung open and slammed shut out in the hallway. I knew  
it was Celes but I couldn't afford to go after her and leave Zen free to kill himself right there in  
that bathroom. It was the best thing for her to do in the interest of her own welfare. When I  
thought about it, we had no further business to take care of anyway.  
  
"Don't make me use this," he warned, hoisting the knife out in front of me. His eyes were like  
orbs of jellied fire, set in the sockets of some crude and savage golem, one that was  
reprogrammed to kill. He'd do it. I knew he would. He was a slave to the ether now, completely  
incapable of rational thought. "Don't make me..."  
  
"Fine." There. I surrendered to the drugs like I always have. Was he happy now? "There's  
probably no better solution, anyway. Let me see if I got this whole thing down. You want me to  
throw this in the tub when the next E-flat peaks?"  
  
He sighed and sank further into the tub, apparently content that his fate was neigh. "You'd  
better do it. . ."  
  
"Oh, I'll do it," I replied, scooping the nearest whole grapefruit into my left hand. "Sure! What  
are friends for?"  
  
I patiently waited for Maria to hit the last E-flat of the song, at which point I hauled back and  
launched the grapefruit at Zen's head with all I could muster. The effect was instantaneous, but I  
never hung around to find out how far it would go, only long enough to realize I made an impact.  
The ether had changed gears on him. It'd probably be followed by one of those hellishly intense  
introspective nightmares, some four hours of catatonic despair. Ignore the nightmare in the  
bathroom, I thought, at least until the ether wears off. . .  
  
* * *  
  
I once lived in a quiet place, safe and distant from all the townships and empires of the world.  
There were no hassles to enlist in any movement or fire up any revolution. Everything was  
comfortably routine and low-profile. It was my escape, my exodus. Nowadays, finding such a  
place is like unearthing some amazingly rare jewel. It's a lesson we've chosen to always learn the  
hard way, that every place which bears the footfall of a man is practically destined to go to hell.  
  
I want to think that none of it is because of our nature, that it's just the world which has made  
us out to be these power-hungry, drug-addled vessels who measure happiness in quarts of ether.  
When I finally left that wonderfully tranquil place, known to the locals as the Veldt, I took parts  
of it with me. The night surf on the eastern seaboard. The South Cape at dawn. The grassy knoll  
in the springtime that overlooked Thamasa. . .  
  
History is a very funny thing. We never appreciate the moment until after its gone. At the very  
least, it's fair to say that the Empire was always looking ahead rather than looking back. I can't  
honestly say what force it was that taught the Imperials to forget about their yesterdays, but it  
would be a wonderful thing to have in this day and age, where our yesterdays are paved with so  
much suffering. 


	5. Exodus

Fear & Loathing in South Figaro  
Chapter Five: Exodus  
  
It must have been around four o'clock in the morning when Zen finally came out of his  
ether stupor. I had no choice but to fight off the exhaustion which came with the encroaching  
gloom of nightfall. I was stuck trying to come up with a story to tell Celes regarding that raving  
bathroom maniac. Besides, I had to keep a straight inventory of my senses. How the hell was I  
supposed to get any sleep when there was a knife-wielding psychopath just around the bend?  
  
Pink and turquoise stained the aurora skies, casting an inquiring radiance about our poorly  
espoused suite. Ever so complacently I threw back a Blue Curacao, genuinely satisfied with the  
defense I had finally concocted. I'd just tell them that Zen was a devout Imperial, one which I had  
intended to use as a common frame of reference for the 'Celes Chere' interview. It'd work. Sure.  
After all, it's no surprise that animosity which exists amongst a shattered alliance is greater than  
that of any two opposing factions, greater even than that between Gestahl and Banon.  
  
Well, almost.  
  
I was staring lovingly at the preternatural splendor of dawn when Zen lumbered out from  
the bathroom, ruining the heavenly ambience with his drunken, waterlogged demeanor. "Sleep  
well?" I asked rhetorically, and proceeded to refill my glass.  
  
"Is it Monday yet?" he said, and plopped down in the chair directly adjacent from me,  
getting in the way of the sunlight.  
  
"It's barely Saturday," I remarked, digging in to a leftover club sandwich. "Six hours and  
you still don't got your fuckin' head straight."  
  
At the very least, his hallucinations were down to a tolerable level, although it made me  
very uncomfortable that he was still clutching that goddamn hunting knife in his left hand. With it,  
he proceeded to carve a grapefruit into halves - quarters, eights, sixteenths - until it was hewed to  
a fine, citric pulp. "Nice knife, aye?"  
  
"Where'd ya get it?" I said, suddenly wishing I never pursued the conversation.  
  
"Room service sent it up. I needed sumthin' to cut the limes."  
  
"What limes?" I asked, scanning the table.  
  
He paused, trying to salvage some cryptic detail from yesterday's storm. "Never had any,"  
he finally said, hacking viciously into another helpless grapefruit, "they don't grow in Figaro."  
  
The nagging suspicion plagued me that his ether binge was the result of something which  
had transpired at the conference. I was about to voice my suspicions when he grabbed his head  
and shot up from the table. "Ride the bastard out!" I said. "Fighting it only makes it worse!"  
  
"No!" He flopped down on one of the mattresses. "Gotta get over their to the Falcon and  
find Edgar!"  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Why? So, we can go over there and blast him outta bed with the fire hose, man!"  
  
"I think you should leave that poor bastard alone! He said he was gonna turn in early after  
the conference. He's got enough to worry about with his kingdom and all to go frettin' over some  
chocobo rancher with a head full of ether."  
  
"You don't understand. He got a hold of my woman, man!"  
  
"Who? You mean that green-haired filly with the Returner crew? Shit, man. You think he  
sodemized her?"  
  
"That's right. Now, he's got her, man! He's got my baby, yeah!"  
  
I remembered the girl. We had an altercation at the conference a few hours earlier: my  
assistant had made a fool of himself.  
  
* * *  
  
The conference itself was absolute madness. By and large, the inside of the mayor's manor  
was no more organized than the hippy mob outside. A row of tables lined the back wall where the  
Returners sat. There, they waited patiently to be questioned and prided on their great adventure.  
They received no mistreatment from the ever eager journalists and historic scholars in attendance,  
for bodyguards had been hired personally by the mayor himself to make the conference proceed  
more smoothly and efficiently.  
  
Zen and I had considerable trouble getting to the Returners and asked the mayor whether  
or not it was possible if we could get more privacy with one Returner at a time in a separate  
chamber. It took much coaxing on our part, but he finally conceded. Sparing one Returner at a  
time in the guest room while the rest were subject to the three-ring media blitz downstairs made  
things a lot more convenient for the actual conference.  
  
"I hope you'll manage to conclude each of your interviews after ten minutes," the mayor  
said to us. "There are, after all, other journalists and historians who wish to canvass them."  
  
I assured him we would, adding, "As long as you can get us the monarchs for starters,  
things should go very smoothly. The others shouldn't be so hard to get to. We can interrogate  
them in town some time tonight."  
  
He almost guaranteed sessions with Cyan Garamonde and Sabin Rene Figaro, for they  
were not immediate rulers, only loyalists to the kingdoms they were akin with. In the past, Edgar  
had proven to be a very difficult man to get a hold of. In addition to being labeled as a hero to  
humankind, he was also predisposed with such tasks as the flow of trade in Tzen and continuation  
of the corn harvests in Kohilegen. Fuck it, I thought, as long as we were able to question him and  
everyone else before leaving for Maranda on Tuesday. My editor and chief of staff back home  
insisted on total coverage for this conference. In order to hang onto this job, I could do no less.  
  
"You seem a bit paranoid," I said to Zen once the mayor left the room. "Why don't you  
throw back a few tinctures and leave the rest to me?"  
  
"Maybe I'll do just that." This was probably the juncture in which Zen was in the midst of  
contemplating whether or not he should go back to the livery. He still had a score to settle with  
the stableman, one which he failed to put behind him earlier that morning. "Gimme the kit bag."  
  
I did. He produced a small ruby flask, a tincture, and threw it back. "Probably you should  
only take one of these," he told me.  
  
I agreed. I couldn't let narcotics get in the way of whatever interviews were going to  
transpire here today. But the conference went surprisingly fast. There were times in which I was  
absolutely sure we would be able to finish all the interviewing in one day. From Cyan's heart-  
wrenching account of Doma's undoing (as well as that of his ill-fated wife and son) to Sabin's  
profoundly intriguing Lost Soul parable regarding his apprenticeship with the martial arts legend,  
Duncan, all of it was progress. All of it was gold. Nothing could stop me now.  
  
Then, Terra and Edgar strolled in and ruined everything.  
  
My assistant must have been on his eleventh tincture by that time and was giving an  
incoherent ramble regarding the various books on the varnish-lacquered shelves: "Golden  
chocobo. . .man, that's deep. . .Golbez fucked the Emperor. . .never gonna settle. . .shit, I was  
born. . .born? No fault of mine. . .get the espers outta here. . .orders from Captain Zeep!"  
  
Terra and Edgar exchanged nervous glances, as if to say 'What have we gotten ourselves  
into?'. I organized the stories of the others as best I could before slapping the fool on the back of  
the head. "We got company," I told him, gesturing to the monarch and the esper girl. "So, sit  
down and behave yourself."  
  
He seemed to understand, despite the glazed look in his eyes. So, we all took our seats at  
either of the four corners of the table and got right down to business. Amazing. As hard as it was  
for one to actually get their hands on Edgar Roni Figaro, here he was. For some mysterious  
reason, he wanted to be present for Terra's interview, as if he was her consort. Which was fine!  
Two lovebirds with one stone. Made my job a whole lot easier.  
  
I was halfway into recording Terra Branford's anecdote of esper manipulation when the  
tinctures began to take a hold of Zen. In the brief pocket of time it took me to flip to a fresh page,  
Zen had become part of the interview. What a time for Terra to make small talk with the goon.  
"You're a rider, aren't you?" she said, smiling sweetly at the rancher.  
  
I nudged my associate, for he seemed to be lost in his own hallucinogenic world. "She's  
speaking to you," I said.  
  
He looked up to face her. "Huh?"  
  
"What class are you into?" she said.  
  
"Class? The fuck do you mean?"  
  
"What class of chocobos," she said, tucking an emerald ringlet behind her ear. "You see,  
there's going to be a big race in Figaro desert tomorrow evening and the rest of us were just  
wondering what class of chocobos to place a few bets on."  
  
I dismissed the fact that this seemingly virtuous woman was talking about making bets on  
a race. I was far more worried as to how the half-warped chocobo rancher was going to approach  
this situation. Zen's grin had since grown five times its normal size and was just about ready to  
crack his face. "Oh! So, you want my expert opinion. . .MY expert opinion!"  
  
Mother of God, I thought. Here it comes!  
  
"Well, you know, ya gotta go for the big fuckers. The red ones are thoroughbreds but  
they'll get trampled to shit in no time."  
  
She nodded but her royal associate didn't sound very convinced. "The Vincent Black  
Shadows," I added, "my assistant's a Master Breeder."  
  
"Really?" she exclaimed.  
  
"Bullshit," the king proclaimed silently to himself.  
  
I knew our peace was about to be shattered. I very gradually averted my eyes as Zen shot  
up from the table and approached the king of Figaro. "I think there's a pretty bold bastard in this  
room," he muttered, "some fucker who can't keep his mouth shut."  
  
He produced a cigar from his breast pocket, asking Terra if she had a light. "Sorry," she  
said ever so timidly, "I don't smoke."  
  
He nodded, then turned back to Edgar. "You don't trust me, do you?"  
  
Oh fuck.  
  
The esper girl's eyes were suddenly turgid with fear as my cohort produced the hunting  
knife from his back pocket. I could feel the entropy of the room weighing down heavily upon us  
all, but we were powerless to act upon it. Terra's prim and porcelain face was now hopelessly  
contorted to facilitate her unparalleled fear of the situation. Edgar, whose face was pouring sweat,  
was now beginning to wish he said something different to the rancher. It was evident now that  
this interview wasn't going to go any further and when a knock came from the door, I panicked.  
  
Without warning, the mayor poked his head in. "Is everything. . ."  
  
When, his eyes caught sight of the gleaming blade, he disappeared just as quickly. It was  
time, I felt, for an unindicted absence of the whole scene. "Zen, look!" I waved the kit bag out in  
front of him. "Tinctures! I got tinctures for ya! Tinctures!"  
  
Grunting, he gave Terra a quick kiss on her wrist and took off after me. I could see from  
the looks on their faces prior to booting it out the door that they had begun to wonder if they had  
made the right choice. Granted, they had saved the world from people like Kefka, but who was  
going to save the world from people like us?  
  
* * *  
  
The urge to flee South Figaro came suddenly. How I had managed to get any sleep at all  
last night was an absolute mystery but in waking up, I could tell that the damage we had done was  
total, as though our room had been hit by the Light of Judgement itself. Zen was nowhere to be  
found. I sensed as much. He always was the kind of man who would scam out on the room  
service tabs which, I quickly realized, had been running somewhere between twenty-nine and  
thirty-six gold pieces per hour, for twenty-four consecutive hours.  
  
Be calm. Be calm. I'm a fairly respectable citizen. Multiple felon perhaps, but certainly not  
dangerous. After all, I was still the professional journalist in this town. As long as I could get a  
hold of the remaining Returners without the others being aware of it, I should be able to finish the  
story and not have to concern myself with that rotten assistant of mine. I sighed happily,  
comported my tunic and beret as best I could, then made for the eastern flank of Figaro, where  
their airship was sure to be situated.  
  
But the Falcon was long gone.  
  
There had to have been a law against such panic, but I was out of luck there too. Here I  
was, alone in South Figaro, completely twisted on drugs, no cash, no assistant, no story for the  
magazine, and on top of everything else, a gigantic goddamn hotel bill to deal with. To make  
matters worse, when I finally pulled myself together and opted to scam out on the bill as well, I  
found that my chocobo, thanks to Zen's confrontation, was no longer travel worthy.   
  
So, what now?  
  
What comes next? 


	6. Surf Chasers

Fear & Loathing in South Figaro  
Chapter Six: Surf Chasers  
  
Of all the things I've gained and lost in this crazy world of mine, I miss my mind the most. My  
ill-fated chocobo, I suppose, would come in a distant second. But as far as that slipshod assistant  
of mine was concerned, well, if I never saw him again for the entire time I was out on this  
goddamn mission, I'd die a happy man. He caused enough trouble without me around to go  
tear-assing through South Figaro high on ether and wanting to kill anything that looked at him  
the wrong way.  
  
But he was probably right in assuming that Owzer was a liar from the first moment we saw  
him. Maybe there really was nothing going on between Celes and Leo and she was just looking  
for the opportunity to observe the druggie in action. Maybe she and Owzer were in on it. I'd never  
know. All I knew was that I had to get out of Figaro as soon as possible before the others hunted  
me down like a wild Buffalax.  
  
I went back to my room and comported my wares to the best of my ability. There was no point  
in trying to tidy the place up; it was beyond hope. Several grapefruit were still intact, despite the  
skirmish the previous night, and I stashed them away in my duffle. What Returner interviews I  
had completed were thrown helter-skelter into my bag as well. No point in wasting time  
composing them, I thought. I'd have plenty of time to take care of that once I hit the road.  
  
But where was I going?  
  
Ah yes. I had to get to the race in Figaro desert! Terra told me she would be heading in that  
direction, so maybe I could just meet up with the rest of them there and finished this goddamn  
story. I stopped just short of the stairs when I realized what a spectacle I'd make of myself by  
stepping out into the lobby. He was scamming out on the bill, they'd think. With my luggage over  
my shoulder and sweating more profusely than a concubine in heat, they were sure to suspect  
something.  
  
So, I pivoted ever so casually in the middle of the sun-filled hallway. Don't run, I told myself.  
They'd like any excuse to interrogate you. Just pretend you're admiring the tapestries adorning the  
corridors like all the other yuppies from the hinterlands.  
  
That a boy.  
  
There was an open window sill at the very end of the hall - the light at the end of the tunnel! I  
walked on, on passed the Albrook tourists and the Tzen natives who failed to receive any  
blessings from their saviors. On passed the bellhops who were trying to salvage the disrepair of  
room thirty-two. Quietly, I chuckled in retrospect. They were going to need some backup on that  
one.  
  
When I was sure the coast was clear, I pried open the window pane and gazed down over the  
threshold. I probably wouldn't survive a two-story plunge to the cobbled streets below, but the  
canal might help soften the blow a bit. Even if I landed on one of those foolish skinny dippers, I'd  
fare relatively well. One leg over the other, I stepped out onto the ledge, hoisting my duffle high  
so that it wouldn't take on as much water and destroy my stories.  
  
And then, I was airborne!  
  
The ground shot up incredibly fast. I could hear odd gasps of awe and bewilderment as I fell  
from grace. The splash knocked the wind out of my lungs and eddies from the distant waterwheel  
sucked me under, spinning me in all directions. Several naked bodies flew passed me as I sped  
for death at full force. I'd be ripped apart in the current. It would probably be over in a few  
minutes. Maybe I should have thought things through more carefully, or at least concentrated on  
landing in the swimming area - AWAY from the current!  
  
"Hey, mister!"  
  
Suddenly, I was pulled back up to the surface. Gasping and sputtering, I gained and lost my  
breath in the same instant. A lovely blonde woman, naked and smiling, had saved me from a  
premature death. "Cool dismount, man! Your toes were curled, but I'll give ya a nine point six!"  
  
Great. The gullet of the hippy crowd.  
  
"I assume you have clothing, right?" This I asked as I examined the contents of my duffle. My  
writings seemed to be intact.  
  
"What's that supposed to mean?"  
  
"Oh. Well. . ." Now, now. Try to dissuade any lying and just give it to her straight. "Well, you  
see, I'm a doctor of journalism. I'm on my way to cover the big race in Figaro desert."  
  
"Okay. . ." That's when her eyes lit up with recognition. "Hey, wait a sec! Aren't you Lothar  
Goldfist?"  
  
"Yeah, that's right!" It was all quite overwhelming. A near-death experience and a fan of my  
work all at the same time. "I was hoping you could help me. See, I need a chocobo to get down  
there to the race. Mine was injured and isn't worthy for travel. You suppose you could help me?"  
  
She pulled on a black tunic and leather trousers that lay neglected off to the side. "Of course  
I'll help you! You're an inspiration to us all!"  
  
"Us?"  
  
"Yeah! Me and my friends! You see, we're Surf Chasers! You remember that little bit you  
wrote about us back in Jidoor, don't you?"  
  
"Oh yeah! Of course!"  
  
And I did. Surf Chasers. Besides the Returners, they were probably the most paramount breed  
of all freedom fighters in the known World of Balance. Of course, they had never resorted to  
underground operations or conspire to kill any Imperial gigas. No. It was their nature, their sense  
of peace and well-being that set them apart from all the control freaks and dictators of the world.  
  
And if they never found a gold piece or picked up a sword for the rest of their lives, they'd be  
happy.  
  
"We came here in a caravan," she went on to say. "We never use the stables, though. Our  
chocobos won't get along with the others. They're not tame enough."  
  
The girl had done her homework.  
  
"So," I said, finally pulling myself out of the moat, "you think there's enough room in that  
caravan for one more?"  
  
"Sure," she said, shrugging. "There's just one condition." So I told her to name her price.  
Guess what she said? "I want you to include us in your next story."  
  
"You what?"  
  
"We want to be in your next story. Is there a problem with that?"  
  
"Well. . ."  
  
But our train of conversation took a dirt road when I heard a cantankerous yell from across the  
terrace. It was the same person who had alienated my field the night before last. The one whom  
Zen had gotten revenge off of in destroying the livery.  
  
The disgruntled stableman!  
  
"Jesus God Almighty! We gotta get outta here quick!"  
  
I shot to my feet but the girl only shook her head. "Not until you give me your word!"  
  
"My word? You're already in the story, aren't you?"  
  
***  
  
And so, here you have it - the tale of a lovely young skinny dipper I met in South Figaro.  
  
The girl's name was Xantcha and she was orphaned in Narshe at a very young age. Since then,  
she was bounced all around the World of Balance, searching for meaning. She set herself up as  
an apprentice to some crackpot alchemist in Kohilegen at the age of sixteen, though it ended  
prematurely when a Sylkis concoction took out the entire eastern wall of the man's cottage.  
  
Seven years after that, she found Banon and joined the Returners. She conceded that there was  
more chemistry going on with them than there was with that lunatic from Kohilegen.  
Nevertheless, she would go on to leave after only a year of service. Something that had to do  
with the esper rampage limiting the lifespans of Banon's acolytes. But it was one of the   
wisest decisions she ever made. Less than three weeks after her resignation, the world was  
destroyed by Kefka.  
  
But Xantcha was quick to understand that the direction of her life wasn't nearly as important  
as the journey itself. Over the years, she had traveled to many places and learned a lot of  
worthwhile skills that defined her as a Surf Chaser. She was a good diplomat, had more than an  
inside knowledge of herbs and other healing implements, even knew the lingo for a majority of  
what townships were still standing. A quintessential renaissance woman.  
  
Such talents earned her the respect and companionship of others who were similarly  
transfixed with the free-as-a-falcon notion. Take Ratepe and Urza for example. Both had been  
abandoned at very young ages, just like Xantcha, and like Xantcha they struggled to establish a  
classless society in a world founded on Imperialism. But the similarities stop here, for each   
one of these incredibly gifted and unfathomably bright youths have their own stories.  
  
By and large, Ratepe had a reputation as the party's comic relief. His cheap wisecracks and  
tendency to reminisce always kept spirits high, brightening the glow of any campfire. A native of  
Albrook, Ratepe also showed remarkable prowess in the field of peddling. Give him an hour and  
he'd make a killing selling dead Oscar carcases to some insane taxidermist. Such profit was what  
always gave sustenance to Xantcha's party.  
  
Urza was different. Unlike Xantcha and Ratepe, he was far more eloquent and well-versed in  
antiquated literature. Give him the time of day and he'd recite 'Chronicles of the Magi' to you  
word for word. He tried entertaining me with such knowledge during our trip, and I had to give  
him all the spare change in my pockets to make him shut up. Definitely a Thamasian, I thought.  
Only one of their breed could actually take pride in such knowledge.  
  
My first impression of them was that they had probably grown up on the Veldt somewhere,  
despite intelligence which suggested Vector spies. It was very hard to trust them all at first.  
  
But then, of course, I got to know them better. . .  
  
***  
  
I can still hear the low but resonant whistle emanating from somewhere in the back of the  
chuckwagon. It was Ratepe's futile attempt to reproduce 'Johnny C. Bad', an upbeat Coliseum  
number northern Figaro had inherited after the World of Balance. It was kind of pathetic, really,  
for the actual melody was impossible to replicate at a whim. You could have lips like a politician  
and even the speed of all your flaming worldly propaganda would be no match for synthesizing  
such a complex rhythm.  
  
It was hard going on the Figaro trail. At least when Zen and I first made headway for South  
Figaro, we had the luxury of riding bareback chocobos. The rigidness of the caravan's wheels  
across the arid scrublands, however, robbed me of any respect I may have originally had for this  
mode of transportation.  
  
"Don't worry!" Urza yelled over the thunderous galloping of chocobos. "As soon as the  
shoreline opens up, we'll have it a lot easier."  
  
He sounded confident in his forecast of silken trails. I, on the other hand, was growing tired of  
the endless bumps and crevices we were careening over. The caravan had come close to  
capsizing on several occasions and I was that close to hopping off entirely and taking my chances  
with the hyenas and vipers.  
  
"How long do we have?" I heard myself ask.  
  
"Two hours at most!" Urza yelled back. "The chocobos are usually a lot faster than this. I  
don't know what it is that's spooking them this afternoon."  
  
I looked up at the orange and turquoise skies. "Probably those goddamn bats. You wouldn't  
happen to have a sword beating around here anywhere, do you?"  
  
Before he could answer, Xantcha's prim face shot out from the dark recesses of the wagon,  
eyes dilated and breath reeking of Reagen. She looked like a gazelle that was on the lookout for  
any predatory birds. "How fare we?" she uttered in mock concern.  
  
Urza changed hands with the reins. "Another few hours. Just give me a minute!" And  
suddenly, the vehicle ground to a halt, catapulting Xantcha out from the wagon and over my  
head. "I just gotta feed the animals."  
  
"What?! No!" She wrestled to find her footing. "Wait! We can't stop here! This is bat  
country!"  
  
She was right. I had traveled this road before.  
  
"Come on!" She grabbed my arm and hauled me back into the chuckwagon. "You gotta try  
some of this stuff!"  
  
Now naturally, one has to always remind themselves to never take drugs from strangers,  
particularly those whom you had met in the course of getting away with a felony. Then, I thought  
to myself 'Why not?'. I had already pushed the limits of my potion-popping antics back in South  
Figaro, and they had, after all, helped me in my hour of need, even when they didn't have to.  
  
What could happen?  
  
The wagon was on the move again when I entered the darkness of the coach. Until then, I had  
always chosen to ride shotgun with the navigator (whoever that might have been). Ratepe had  
long since given up on trying to whistle the Coliseum melody and found that he was far more  
content with 'Into the Darkness'. Now, there was an ironic tune if there ever was one. Where they  
got this music from I'd never know.  
  
"Pretty cool, huh?" Xantcha asked, proudly presenting their sanctuary from the World of  
Balance to me.  
  
It looked like a caricature of some Troian bedroom suite, full of duffles overflowing with  
empty ether flasks. Polychromatic throw pillows lay in decorative heaps all around us. Prismatic  
tapestries strung along the odd cuts among the wagon's tarpulin, transmuting the faint tendrils of  
sunlight to a beautiful spectral radiance. "The drapery was my idea," she razzed.  
  
I was bewitched. "It's beautiful," I said, "Has a certain dreamscape ambience to it."  
  
"Wow!" Xantcha sighed. "The great Lothar Goldfist just called our coach a dreamscape. Isn't  
that just the coolest, Ratepe?"  
  
No response. The glazed look in the man's eyes said that he was already beyond the physical,  
beyond myself and Xantcha, beyond even the Reagen toke that was rolled up between his chubby  
digits.  
  
"Ratepe!" she shouted, snatching the joint from him. "Where are your manners?" She, then,  
handed the smoking toke over to me. "Save some for our guests."  
  
"Sorry, dude," he replied, and promptly passed out on the floor.  
  
"And this is?" I asked, casting a nervous glance to the subconsciously whistling Ratepe.  
  
"Just give it a try," she said, "but try it sitting down. It might be a little safer that way."  
  
I hadn't much of a choice. The vibrations of the caravan were getting extremely nasty and the  
fumes of the drug had already begun to narcoticize me even as I just stood there holding the toke.  
She helped me to cushioned floor, urging me to hurry so that she could get a hit herself. So, I  
plucked the burnt-out butt of a cigarette from the holder in my mouth and quickly replaced it  
with the red Reagen joint.  
  
The wagon seemed to stop moving almost the second I inhaled the smoke. The variegated  
tapestries began to glitter and waver with a life of their own. I exhaled ever so gradually, only to  
find that the smoke had begun to take on terrible mutations in the blind hazes of midday. My  
heart jumped.  
  
"It's okay," Xantcha said, lulling me as she took the joint from my lips. "How do you feel?"  
  
"Mellow."  
  
An understatement to say the least. Of all the narcotics and hallucinogens that had come and  
gone over my many exploits in journalism, nothing was nearly so pacifying as a hit from a  
Reagen joint. I never even realized my juxtaposition on the floor until I felt Xantcha nestle into  
the crook of my shoulder. And so we lay there, unmoving for the longest while as espers and  
chocobos trailed smoking curtsies over our heads.  
  
"Look at that one," I said, gesturing heavenward. "Kinda looks like Ifrit, doesn't it?"  
  
"Oh yeah! Look at that!" She giggled like a schoolgirl. "And that one over there?"  
  
"That one?"  
  
"No, that one! Yeah! Looks a little like Bahamut, doesn't it?"  
  
"So, it does!" I put my arm around her. "So, it does."  
  
It was, indeed, a small victory for the average journalist to find themselves aground with a  
beautiful woman and high as a gambler on Reagen Greens. But I'd like to think that I deserved  
this small victory of mine. The South Figaro conference was, after all, a clear indication of how  
muddled things can get when you take things too seriously. After a while, I didn't even mind the  
odd Dream Stooge that skulked into our sanctuary from time to time, with their lanky frames and  
shameless togas and impromptu invitations to go bathing down by the radiant coastline.  
  
But this was my moment. My sunset. My waves lapping up on my sandbar. But more than  
anything else, this was my Xantcha, in her wonderfully angelic slumber at my side. Forget about  
that under-funded race for the time being, I thought, at least just for one more day. . .  
  
***  
  
What races were scheduled for that evening were cancelled due to severe sandstorms. Harsh  
Narshe currents had completely ravaged the course that day, with the resulting lack of visibility  
employing only an eighty-yard radius, which wasn't even beyond the hay bales at the end of the  
pit area. It was the perfect end to the perfect day. I had missed nothing at all by the time my   
chauffeurs had finally reached Figaro desert.  
  
"Ya sure you're gonna be okay?" Xantcha asked as I stepped out into the gale storms of dust.  
"You can stay with us for a little longer if you'd like."  
  
"I wish I could," I replied, casting a wayfarer's glance to the large zepplin looming up out of  
the sandy limbo. "But I gotta finish this story before the Returners take off on me again. And you  
know how it is with Returners. They're faster than green chocobos on acid!"  
  
She giggled. It was the same laugh I had heard back on the Figaro trail somewhere. "Can't  
wait to read your next story, Lothar. Good luck!"  
  
She reached out, wrapped both arms around my neck, and kissed me. Her breath was warm  
and still redolent of Reagen Greens. Then, like cowboys in the sunset, the Surf Chasers vanished  
in the spinning darkness. In the dust, the track was completely barren. The only sounds amongst  
me were the endless checkered flags waving about in the gale. Throwing my duffle over my  
shoulder, I made way for the nearest tent I could find, knowing only too well that tomorrow  
would be just another day of stalled retreats and burning the locals.  
  
But it's like I've always said.  
  
Buy the ticket; take the ride. 


	7. The Figaro 400!

Fear & Loathing in South Figaro  
Chapter Seven: The Figaro 400!  
  
Sunday afternoon.  
  
Memories of this day are extremely hazy. Even now. Goddamn those Reagen Greens, and  
Xantcha, and everything else! What was I even out here for anyway? What was the meaning of  
this whole excursion? Everything seemed to lose focus after that whole Green Cherry Tonic stint,  
and it was getting increasingly difficult to separate the real from the unreal, the friends from the  
foes.  
  
And the drugs from the bats.  
  
I knew for a fact that this was Figaro desert, which offered absolutely no relief. This dusty  
oblivion was giving me no quarter and I must have been staggering around blindly in the dunes for  
at least an hour. This was not a good place to be lost in, especially when arcane drugs were  
systematically ungluing your brain tissue. Dehydration was all bad enough, but when it was  
coupled with the hallucinatory effects of ether and Reagen, the resulting illusions of roving bands  
of scorpionmen and rabid chocobos with long killing bills were no longer projections of the mind.  
  
They were projections of the senses.  
  
"Hey mister! Look out!"  
  
THWACK! My cranium pealed with pain as I struck up against a mirrored shaft of metal.  
Probably one of the scorpionmen with his war pike at the ready for what intruders threatened his  
territory. Play on his sympathy, I thought. Hit the ground. Make the bastard think you've been  
mortally wounded. Sure. The sandy pillows'll cushion the fall. Hell, maybe if you just laid very  
still, he'd leave you be.  
  
"Didn't that hurt?"  
  
"What?"  
  
The face of a young girl loomed down from the maelstrom of sand. One with golden ringlets  
that were scarcely being sheltered beneath a cornflower-blue painter's beret. She had large curious  
eyes that didn't quite seem to fit her porcelain facade. Judging from her attire, she looked to be  
some kind of blossoming apprentice of Owzer's out to capture the first place winner's moment of  
glory.  
  
"Don't move!" I warned her.  
  
"What? Why?"  
  
"If you don't move, it won't hurt you!"  
  
I gestured upward to the shaft of metal sticking up in the sand. She shook her head in  
confusion. "What are you talking about? That's a tent pole!"  
  
So it was. Apparently I had been banging into so many of the goddamn things that I hadn't  
even noticed this one. Beyond it, the fixed sides of wildly flapping tent tarpaulin spiraled off into  
blind eternity. I tried my best to stand under my own power but my head was still doing  
somersaults.  
  
"Need some help?" Before I could answer, she took hold of me and propped me back onto my  
feet. "Maybe you should get out of the sand for a while!"  
  
The only rational thing I could do at this point was nod and smile as an angry hand shoved me  
through a tent flap.  
  
Something like that happened anyway. It's like I said before: memories of this day are  
extremely hazy.  
  
***  
  
But things became more coherent as the day wore on. I had been eating nothing but grapefruit  
since stumbling into the game tent of the Figaro 400. It was a very odd establishment to have in  
the midst of a racetrack, full of all kinds of Country Fair/Polish Carnival madness. It was probably  
intended to be some kind of vain counterpoint to keep idle all the thrillseekers who would  
otherwise be making a killing on number nine - a black chocobo named Carlos who had won his  
past seven races without quarter.  
  
Trillions of angry sand particles scourged the tent on all flanks. Every five minutes, there  
would be war whoops from outside, followed by the labored galloping and wheezing of at least a  
dozen fleeting chocobos. As that was going on, men in corpulent clown suits were promoting the  
existence of their booths to all the game-tent patrons. I can still hear their hopeful pitches:  
  
PLACE YOUR BETS ON THE BOUNCING IMP TOKEN!! SEE HOW CLOSE YOU CAN  
GUESS TO HOW HIGH IT'LL JUMP!!  
  
STEP RIGHT UP AND SHOOT THE PASTIES OFF THE NIPPLES OF THE BULL  
MOG!! WIN A COTTON CANDY CHIMERA!!  
  
These kind of things go on incessantly, but no one seems to notice, save for myself of course. I  
was trained to notice these kind of things, and right now, it was clear that I had stumbled into  
some kind of carnival twilight limbo. So, it wasn't just South Figaro which had been transformed  
as a result of Kefka's downfall. It was like this everywhere. The whole world was suddenly in the  
throes of a terrible orgy of gambling and drinking. I was probably the only one who still  
maintained any kind of positive work ethic, and now, even THAT looked to be in jeopardy!  
  
And who, I wondered aloud, was the quintessential mastermind behind 'this' particular  
festival?!  
  
"It's the chancellor," explained the bartender. This he was saying as I finally elected to buy a  
drink to help get the edge off. "It's one of those 'You're the richest king in the universe' parties for  
King Edgar."  
  
"Is that so?" I hacked into another grapefruit and mixed it with a tonic (makes a very fine  
punch; you should try it sometime!). "That's different. You'd think a man of Edgar's stature would  
go for something more along the lines of an invention fair."  
  
"I was thinkin' the same thing," he said while simultaneously serving drinks to all his other  
customers. "I suppose a theme doesn't matter much when it comes to celebrating a safe world."  
  
I agreed. This new world of ours wasn't perfect, but at least it was free of hierarchy. This, I  
think, was the handle, that sense of inevitable victory over the forces of old and evil. People went  
about expressing their independence in all sorts of unique ways after that day. There was this one  
gentleman who climbed up on the countertop as I was in the process of leaving the place. A  
young blond woman was yelling his name, begging for him not to make a scene.  
  
"Don't tell me my business, woman!" he snapped, and dusted off a tunic that looked to be  
palmed from the simulacrum itself. "I got reason for bein' up here! We all got our reasons for bein'  
in these parts, and I reckon y'all down there agrees with me!"  
  
Although most of us weren't paying much attention, there was the odd nod of approval.  
"That's what I'm sayin'!" he replied. "I must've been up until three in the morning last night, lookin'  
for a way out of Nikeah. 'No boats leaving for Figaro til seven' the guy at the dock sez, so I was  
like 'Fuck you, man!' and tried findin' someone on the wharf who'd make an exception. Well sir's,  
by four, I lucked out. Found this one guy down at pier forty, I did. Said he had to deliver a ship  
by six-thirty and offered to give me a lift to Figaro. Don't really remember much else. Don't even  
know how I got from South Figaro to here. But I'm glad to be out here with you folks! I really  
am!"  
  
No one said anything, and no one needed to. We all understood where he was coming from.  
Races like these attract very special breeds, whether they be chocobos, riders, or even spectators.  
  
And our man in the prismatic tunic was clearly one of them.  
  
***  
  
By four in the afternoon, things began to wind down. No longer were there any chocobos on  
the endless march for glory. All of this ended less than half an hour ago, and the dust had begun to  
settle once again on the desert floor. At this point, I thought it best to recommence my search for  
the Returners. The story was far from finished and I was running out of time.  
  
The first thing I did was disguise myself with some novelty trinkets and clothing from some  
sideways kiosk at the game tent. Those whom I had already interviewed would probably still  
recognize me after the show Zen and I put on back in South Figaro. As well, I needed an alias to  
bury Lothar Goldfist until the exploit was behind me. The alias?  
  
Horatio Alger.  
  
It would be easier now, I thought. I had the guise of my editor and chief of staff back in  
Maranda and the sandstorms had finally dissipated, restoring visibility of the pit area. It was  
somewhat disheartening when I realized just how many tents there were in the Figaro 400. Terra,  
on the other hand, had said something with regards to bets. MY best bet, I thought, was finding  
whatever tent it was that dealt with the gambling aspect of the race.  
  
Easier said than done.  
  
"Excuse me! I'm looking for. . .what? Oh, you don't! Well, how about you sir? Do you know  
where I can find the. . .huh? But you work here, don't you? You don't? But you're dressed up like  
a clown! Oh! Sorry about that! No, really! I'm sorry! I thought that was a costume! Ma'am?  
Excuse me, ma'am! Can you help me find the. . .well, fuck ya! Goddamn it! What's wrong with  
you people?!"  
  
It really makes you wonder why anyone would want to waste their time in this regal sandtrap.  
Prolonged exposure to these kind of surroundings would undoubtably run a sane man ragged.  
Either these fools had nothing better to do with their time or they were too broke or blind to care.  
  
And then it happened: the Returners gave themselves away!  
  
"How do you do it, Setzer?" a voice lamented in utter frustration. "No one can possibly be  
THAT lucky!"  
  
Feminine, and quite young. Almost like Terra, and just across the way through a tent flap that  
was bleeding kerosene light. So it was, with Setzer, Celes, and half a dozen other Returners,  
apparently fed up with the winning streak of their 'wandering gambler'. The search for my story  
was over, but I felt my cleverly devised identity fall apart as I stepped into the tent and  
approached the party.  
  
When what do my wondering eyes do appear. . .but a cohort of mine: my assistant, the queer!  
  
He approached them, ever so casually, but I could tell that the peace was about to be  
shattered. He was either drunk or stoned, for he was showing absolutely no signs of disguising his  
visage or voice. He had a hard time keeping his balance and muttered such obscenities as 'Hey,  
regal butt! Cloak my leopards!" Terra recognized him immediately and leaned over to the  
ever-intimidating presence of Sabin Rene Figaro.  
  
A bad omen to say the least.  
  
"That's the man who harassed us back in South Figaro," she whispered. How I managed to get  
close enough to hear this I have no idea. "Get rid of him, would you Sabin?"  
  
Hmmmm. In the left corner, we have Sabin Rene Figaro, apprentice of the great martial artist,  
Duncan and Master of the Bum Rush. And in the right corner, we have Zen Ravenwood, an  
overpaid, underworked, utterly frustrating and entirely thankless ache of an assistant. I had half a  
mind to slip ten gold pieces to the gambler of the group and tell him to put it on Sabin.  
  
But no. I couldn't do that. As much as I hated the creep at this stage of the game, I needed  
him.  
  
So instead, I grabbed a man's whiskey bottle straight from the source, danced across the  
wigwam, and smashed it hard over Zen's head. The chocobo rancher crumpled to the ground. The  
Returners seemed positively jarred from my sudden intervention.  
  
"This man needs Jesus!" I yelled, loud enough for everyone to hear me. "As do you all! You've  
turned the ever-chivalric grounds of Figaro into a desert of wayfarers and hustlers! If I wasn't  
such a forgiving man, I'd condemn all you swines to Nibelung where you rightfully belong!"  
  
Where the fuck did that come from?!  
  
"My friend." The voice of King Edgar himself. "I had no idea you felt so strongly for my  
kingdom." And suddenly, HE was the voice of proclamation. "This man speaks the truth! Have  
the chancellor send his men to take down these tarpaulins. This race is over!"  
  
Thus, a tragedy had been averted. Zen's life had been spared from that blitzkrieg of a brother,  
and at the same time, I was made the unexpected hero of the whole fiasco. Now, the Returners  
were gathered around ME, giving ME hugs and handshakes and slaps on the back.  
  
The Returners might have saved the world from Kefka, but it was I who had saved the world  
from the Returners. . . 


	8. Bad Dreams

Fear & Loathing in South Figaro  
Chapter Eight: Bad DreamS  
  
A caravan took us back to the castle, one of Edgar's own. A novel idea if there ever had been  
one, because his caravan wasn't one of those makeshift contraptions you'd see Surf Chasers  
towing along all the world's shorelines with second-rate chocobos. No. This was a superior  
machine. Hollow recesses of wood had been abandoned for elaborate feathered cushioning.  
Figaro insignias were enameled all over the padding in Aztec gold.  
  
Its mobility was all the more magnificent. There were no rusted-out axles on this puppy, no  
ignoring how well-grooved and exceptionally oiled she was in her travels. Almost slipstream  
were her escapades, as if there was no ground on which to travel. So this was what it was like to  
get higher without drugs than with them. It certainly said a lot for the king's vehicle of choice  
when it came to, say, the negotiation of a truce with a political rival. Ire is a difficult thing to feel  
when you're trapped in a preternatural realm of comfort.   
  
Any dope fiend will quote you on that one.  
  
But of course, what else was there to expect from such a master machinist as Edgar?  
Typically, you don't expect these kind of things from monarchs. More times than not, kings fit a  
more stereotypical model. An image that had always played in our minds is that of some fatback  
grossero, with head shaped like an artillery shell to facilitate a crown that was anyone's but his.  
Such men, with girths so foul, would sit upon pewter thrones and watch with idle eyes as their  
subservients get banged to shit in pointless wars.  
  
You couldn't quite say that much about Edgar. He watched his weight, his valued his people,  
and, perhaps most notably, he had saved his world. Quite the showman. . .  
  
Jesus. Here I am going on about monarchs and the artifice they spawn when I should be  
concentrating more on the fiasco of keeping my deranged assistant at bay in the presence of our  
earthly saviors. Of course, I have every right in the world to avoid this topic, because at this  
particular juncture of my account, nothing happened that I'm profoundly boastful of. But I  
suppose it's in the interest of all those Returner devotees out there that I continue.  
  
* * *  
  
Very well, then. Back to the story. . .  
  
* * *  
  
No sympathy for the devil!  
  
Cogs of concern clicked in concert around this aspersion the whole way back from the racing  
grounds. Zen had been quite conscious, not to mention quite pissed off at having awoken to find  
himself bound and gagged in the back of some alien stagecoach. If that wasn't bad enough, no one  
likes being looked at in the fashion that they had three heads, especially a disgruntled dope fiend.  
  
  
Of course, I had no right to be cynical. For all I knew, the poor bastard probably thought he  
DID have three heads and was doing his best to resolve a problem he never had.  
  
"Do you think you'll be able to help him, Mr. Alger?" The chagrin of the esper girl who, less  
than an hour ago, was trying to sick their Blitz Master on the poor fool.  
  
"With God," I said, "all things are possible."  
  
And the award for best actor goes to. . .  
  
She appeared reassured, as did all the others who had once been questioning my priesthood. I  
was glad, for it was getting increasingly difficult to shake this extremely awkward situation I had  
been thrust into. When I had first received word of Figaro's press conference, Zen and I had been  
roughing it in Barstow with our minds clean and our priorities straight. Now, only one of us was  
of sound mind, joyriding with Returners under phony aliases across the most arid desert on Earth,  
risking imprisonment for committing fraud and even heresy for impersonating a clergyman.  
  
"Mr. Alger?"  
  
"Huh?"  
  
The Magitek Knight must have been eyeing me nervously for the past five minutes. But I  
couldn't help it. There would be little, if any, way to cope with getting caught. We had gone too  
far by this time. I was pouring sweat. I couldn't feel my fingers. Blood thrummed in my temples.  
Shutdown would be inevitable. They'd resuscitate me, then realize it had been that lunatic  
journalist from South Figaro the whole time.   
  
Oh well. Many fine books have been written in prison. Maybe I could strike up some sort of  
common-law agreement with the bailiff and put a bestseller towards shaving some time off the  
wait for parol. They'd be lenient, considering it was just a first offense.  
  
"Oh! Ms.Chere! What ails you, my dear?"  
  
"No, what ails 'you'? For a moment, you looked ready to black out or something."  
  
"Uh. . ."  
  
"Leave him alone, Celes." Locke Cole, an unusual hero for an unusual situation. "He's trying  
to get ready to help our friend, here."  
  
He gestured to my assistant, who was thrashing about on the floor of the coach like a drugged  
serpent. Growling and frothing against the gag in his mouth, he glared daggers at me from across  
the caravan, as if to say 'What a stupid disguise! You can't fool anyone!' How wrong he was if I  
could fool the Returners of all people.  
  
"Have you ever seen anything like this before?" Sabin asked across the way.  
  
"I see it all the time, my friend! These things are commonplace in my profession. You get  
people from every walk of life coming to the clergy and asking atonement for things you couldn't  
even imagine. It's drunkards struggling with their inner demons, harlots looking for God, or even  
some widow trying to move on with his or her own life."  
  
"That's so sad." Terra said.  
  
"Indeed."  
  
"Muverfuver!" Zen muttered with a mouthful of loincloth.  
  
Hearing this, Sabin shoved a foot in the rancher's midsection. "Sorry," he said, turning to look  
at me. "The devil made me do it."  
  
I said nothing. The devil was on the verge of making me kick him myself.  
  
By midday, we reached Figaro Castle. They had been silent hours, marked by muffled  
whispers from the Returner folk on such matters as what the future would have in store for them.  
It would be gambling on their foresight to discuss such things with a journalist, not to mention a  
journalist with the demeanor of a priest. Nevertheless, I couldn't help but to be at least a little  
curious as to how this world would be suited to meet their needs.  
  
Silently, I began to speculate.  
  
Would Sabin follow in Duncan's footsteps and teach the art of the Blitz? Would Terra run off  
to Mobliz and become a surrogate mother to all those parentless children? Would Locke move on  
to be the father of modern archaeology, with Celes becoming an eager colleague of his? And  
what of the gambler? Would he make well on his aspirations to open some big-name casino in the  
middle of such socio-economical giants as Jidoor or Nikeah or Tzen?  
  
Too soon to tell, I suppose.  
  
The grand alcazar of Figaro stood in silent repute before us all. Its wings branched out as  
though it were struggling to unite east and west like Aria de Mezzo Caraterre. The main  
vestibule, a rugged gray bastion of flagstones and war pennants, loomed up from the desert floor  
as though it were put there for some very grim purpose. Far off in the vista, the Falcon touched  
down, casting an ominous shadow over the west wing. Minutes later, the gambler was leading the  
over-the-hill Returners, Strago and Cyan, in a weary flank back to the castle.  
  
Terra was the first to call out to them. "I still don't see why you guys never took the  
stagecoach with the rest of us!"  
  
"And leave my ship back there in that snake pit? You've got to be out of your mind!"  
  
Resisting the urge to comment, I disembarked from the caravan with the others. Despite the  
ordeal, I was becoming more tranquil. The last of the drugs must have been working their way  
out of my system. I let them. Time had always been the real cure for such things as drug-induced  
psychosis. Perhaps by dusk, Zen would also come out of the funk he'd been in.  
  
"Your Highness!" The chancellor came surging out from the palace with his regal robes in a  
knot. "I heard you wished to cancel the race! Was something done that was not to your  
satisfaction?"  
  
"Not at all," he replied, walking with the chancellor back into the castle. "Merely a change of  
heart. Nothing more."  
  
The whole time they were talking, my eyes scanned the horizon with delightful reckoning,  
suddenly free of the aggravations of imprisonment. At the very least, we'd be inconspicuous for  
another day. Figaro Castle, given its reputation as a technological marvel, was the perfect place to  
crash. No authorities, no breach of security. Just a quiet place to rest and regroup. What more  
could a fellow felon ask for?  
  
"Chancellor, I'd like you to meet Father Alger."  
  
With a quick smile, I shook the Chancellor's hand while the others assisted my assistant from  
the coach to the castle. By the Goddesses, what a sorry sight he was! His beard, I could tell, was  
three days old, bordering on standard wino trim. His ten-gil prism tunic was coming apart at the  
shoulders from all the road-wind. His pantaloons looked as though they had just been digested by   
a Zoneater. If that wasn't bad enough, the Honky was actually smiling!!  
  
"A friend?" the Chancellor inquired.  
  
"Friend of the Lord, perhaps." If our maker was anything like him, we were in more trouble  
than I thought. "Just another side-saddle atheist I found scouring the racing grounds a few hours  
earlier."  
  
"Can he be helped?"  
  
This he was asking while my assistant lumbered unsteadily in the general direction of the  
esper girl. "Hey, babe! What's say we blow this here sand castle and get our own shindig on  
elsewhere?"  
  
To that, Terra slapped him. "Get away from me!"  
  
"I'd like to think so, Chancellor."  
  
* * *  
  
Here's to you and here's to me!  
The best of friends we'll ever be!  
But if we should ever disagree,  
Fuck you, and here's to me!*  
  
This charming little dirge pops up every now and then in my mind, though I fail to remember  
exactly how it was that I came to acquire it. It may have had something to do with a skirmish that  
I had gotten into following a supposedly friendly poker game in Zozo some three years ago, back  
when the town's social structure was more intact than it is today. I have this distorted image of  
Dagsson, editor of the 'Balance Quarterly', throwing his bald head back and amply gloating over a  
five-card spread of Aces and Eights, a Dead Man's Hand.  
  
A play threatening to live up to its name.  
  
"No hard feelings, aye Goldfist?"  
  
"Of course not," I answered while he raked all of my hard earned cash into a very expensive  
jacket pocket. "Another article on Magitek Armor and that money'll be mine all over again."  
  
Dagsson guffawed. "That's the spirit! Come! I'll buy ya a drink!"  
  
It was just his way of saying that he'd get me drunk so that I'd lose my mettle for the next of  
our fated poker encounters. It almost makes you glad that friends come and go, because with  
friends like these, who needs Kefka?  
  
Or my assistant, for that matter?  
  
It had been almost three hours since we found him back at the Figaro 400, yet he showed no  
signs of leveling out whatsoever. I made a friendly request to the chancellor, asking if we could  
have him isolated so that I might have some time alone to work my 'white magic', so to speak.  
He was all the more eager to oblige and several of the others even seconded the idea. Clearly, he  
was not going to make any friends in the realm of Figaro this day.  
  
With the chocobo rancher in tow, I ambled on over to the east wing, quick to realize that,  
while both wings were interconnected to the rest of the castle, they were not accessible by  
causeways. One actually had to exit just to enter either flank of the goddamn castle. A machinist  
perhaps, but Edgar would hardly make a worthwhile architect.  
  
So, there I was, stumbling through the grounds of Figaro, looking like a cleric out of some  
upper-Albrook hobo jungle, while my attendant appeared to have been struck with a class-3 Bio  
spell. How had things digressed like this? Granted, we were safe, but we weren't fooling anyone  
other than ourselves. Those Returner folk had to have been more brainless than everyone was  
giving them credit for.  
  
"Do you have any idea what we got ourselves into, now?" This I uttered while I lugged the  
fucker up the east wing stairwell. No response, so I pressed him even further. "When the  
authorities catch up to me, they'll spare me the indignity of castration just so I can rot in a jailcell  
and be some bad man's boyfriend!!"  
  
He seemed unfazed.  
  
"Can you fucking hear me?! You're going to give me a record!!"  
  
He scoffed. "Hah! A record! You can't sing! You got no record!"  
  
With a grimace, I tossed him onto the mattress in a less than graceful manner and cracked the  
seal on our kit bag. A small emerald flask caught my eye. An antidote - just what I needed.  
  
"Open up," I said.  
  
"More drugs?" he asked, sounding hopeful.  
  
"Yeah, sure."  
  
He opened an eager snout, one reeking of trench mouth from days of going without proper  
hygiene. The antidote went down without dissension. When it was gone, he sagged on the bed as  
though his life had been extinguished. I made no effort to wake him. It was the first moment of  
comfort I had gotten since the excursion started back outside Barstow. It seemed like a lifetime  
ago. It didn't matter. I had finally regained control of the situation.  
  
He stirred some three hours later. The castle had grown quiet and I prayed the withdrawal  
would keep his bantering down to a minimum. I was trying my darndest to finish documenting  
the past three days.  
  
He sat upright on his bed. "Is it Monday yet?"  
  
I was having the strangest feeling of deja'vu.  
  
"Yes," I said, scribbling feverishly on the vellum before my creativity bled dry. "Now, go  
back to sleep."  
  
"I'm not a fuckin' child!" He rose to his feet, but the first vibes of a hangover drummed in his  
head. He sat back down. "Damn. . ."  
  
"My feelings exactly," I said, putting the paper away. "What happened to you after South  
Figaro, anyway?"  
  
I had long since shucked the cleric attire. The door was locked and there was little chance of a  
Returner walking in on us this late in the night.  
  
"Well, I remembered hearing about that race from the esper girl. So, I thought I'd go out there  
and give those riders some council beforehand. Where's the harm in that?"  
  
"Well, for starters, there's the off chance of getting your claws on some of those Pahsana  
Greens! I mean, shit man! Don't you remember anything about the last few hours?! You were  
blasted out of your fuckin' skull!"  
  
He stared at me.  
  
"You've completely lost sight of the whole mission! What about the Marandian Dream?!"  
  
"The Marandian Dream?"  
  
Yes. The Marandian Dream. So, that had been the reason we were out here. It suddenly made  
perfect sense. Maranda, after all, is a township which had endured more than its share of Imperial  
persecution. If you were to go there now, you'd find that it stands as a distorted mirror image of  
Zozo on a much smaller scale. Pit battles and dog fights clog the commons. Harlotry runs amok.  
Even the ever virginal Lola begins to weaken to the seductive glare of sin.  
  
Thus, 'The Dream' (as it came to be known as), was inherited by our township through the  
deviant legacy of the late Emperor Gestahl. For the simplest of terms, we're anarchists, rising  
against convention and, to a certain degree, the rest of the world, who dared not to become  
involved in our fight to fend off the Empire.  
  
So, here we were: two Marandians, born and bred, giving the world hell on our poor town's  
behalf!!  
  
"Oh yeah," my assistant finally said, after a long, contemplative pause. "Well, I haven't lost  
sight of any of that. If anything, I'm more Marandian now than I ever was before!"  
  
I glared daggers at the fool. "You scurvy shyster bastard!! Getting the rest of the world in on  
our contempt doesn't count! Don't you know that musclehead brother of the king's could have  
torn you limb from limb?! Hell, that would've been subjugating Figaro into our Dream!! What  
would Siegfried say if he knew you were gallivanting off with the chocobo folk?! Fuck, he'd  
have you drawn, quartered, and fed to the carrier pigeons!!"  
  
I suddenly realized I'd been yelling, so I toned my pistol-whipping down to a dull roar. "Just  
promise me you'll keep your wits about you. We're in the vortex, now! There's no going back!  
Hell, we've found the man nerve, here!"  
  
Ideas began crashing around in my head. What percentage of the Surf Chasers out there were  
Marandian in origin? Probably we could round up a whole horde by tomorrow afternoon and take  
South Figaro unconditionally. Then, we could carve another notch in the Marandian belt by  
ransoming the town to Edgar, who'd fork over two more townships to the Marandian syndicate  
for the safety of his people. Hmmmm....  
  
"As your assistant," he said, "I advise you not to get carried away. Hell, it's only been three  
days and I am already getting the Fear!"  
  
"You'll be straight in a few hours. I've never gotten into a hangover or withdrawal symptom  
that I couldn't get out of."  
  
He sat, rose, sat again, then thought it best to stay on his feet. "Don't fuck around, man! This  
is serious. One more hour in this castle and I'll kill somebody."  
  
"Nonsense." Voices could suddenly be heard from the window, feminine voices. I went to the  
sill and saw Terra and Celes stroking a chocobo down in the king's liveries. "Listen."  
  
"What?" he said.  
  
"Two women fucking a chocobo."  
  
He gave me a long, hard stare.  
  
"Don't tell me those things. Not now, man. Not in this place. Fuck, I'm claustrophobic! You  
didn't know that, did you?"  
  
I didn't. I would probably have to find some way to keep him idle, because he was not a  
pleasant person to be around when drugs were part of the equation. One of the things you learn  
after years of coping with drug people is that you can turn your back on a person, but NEVER  
turn your back on a drug, especially when it's packing a crossbow that's been banned in every  
commonwealth that has a name.  
  
At last, I conceded. "Alright," I replied, "You wanna leave? Fine. I'll even lend you some  
money. You might get as far as Nikeah if you're luck holds out."  
  
"I wanna leave fast!"  
  
He clutched his abdomen with both hands, groaning and sweating all the while. I had seen  
theses symptoms before. He had reached the fearful intensity that only comes at the peak of a  
drug-related seizure. He would need rest if he wanted to rid himself of the intestinal pains.  
  
"Of course." He had his back turned to me, giving me opening to pull an ornamental sword  
from the guestroom wall. "Will ya take a check?"  
  
"Why not?" he growled between throes of anguish. "I can cash it down at the Imptooth. You  
don't even need any ID down there. They know me."  
  
"Whatever's right."  
  
Having said this, I secured a firm grip on the blade and made ready on my intentions to  
incapacitate him for the second time this trip. I was not looking to decapitate, only to deliver a  
concussion. So I swung back and struck him hilt first. The desired effect came, and my assistant  
dropped in an obese heap on the bed.  
  
"God's mercy to you, you monkey swine!"  
  
* * *  
  
Two days I'd been awake, now. Jesus, I'm tired. But even after all this, I simply cannot afford  
to go to sleep. Too many important things are happening that require my attention. Besides, the  
ill-fated words of my assistant jarred me. 'One more hour in this castle and I'll kill somebody'. It  
had been his exact words. I couldn't let it happen. Not here of all places, goddamn it!  
  
So, I stayed up, trying to forget what tomorrow threatened to bring by wandering around my  
regal confines. With candelabra in hand, I made my way through the many dark corridors of the  
cavernous castle. Pictures trimmed with golden pewter lined the way, each one displaying the  
previous Figaro lineage drawn by some unsung artisan or friend of the family.  
  
I had only just begun scrutinizing over Edgar's fourth generation, a king and queen by the  
names of Cecil and Rosa, when I saw a shadow take root on the chamber wall ahead. It danced  
like a marionette with several strings cut. I tried my best to dismiss it, assuming it was probably  
just some concubine of the king's.  
  
On closer inspection, however, I found that it was not some high-priced harlot from a distant  
land, but the Magitek Knight herself. Her hair was a disheveled and clammy blond mess atop her  
head. By fireside, she seemed only to be wearing one of Figaro's many tapestries, draped around  
her lithe frame like a cloak. She startled me at first. I didn't want to believe it was her.  
  
"Celes, my dear..." Words wrestled for space over my tongue. I knew I was minus one cleric  
uniform, but she didn't appear to take any notice. "What ails you?"  
  
She threw her head back and let out a cackle. "Ail? Do I look ail to you?!"  
  
A rhetorical question?  
  
"Come! Come!" She gestured wildly with her hands, still gripping the crimson garment lest it  
leave her naked. She seemed totally incapable of rational thought. "The others are waiting for you  
in the parlor!"  
  
With that, she curtsied and spiraled with the grace of a ballet dancer. I was so beside myself at  
that moment that I consciously had to tell myself to move forward, one step after the other. This  
was just another terrible dream, I told myself. I'm asleep. Of course I am! I'm probably crooked  
in a fetal position back in the east wing, with a blanket thrown over me trying without mercy to  
block out the sights and sounds of everything strange. Knowing this to be fact would have made  
me feel a whole better.  
  
[I urge you to divorce the logic of your strangled mind before reading any further. It should  
lighten the blow considerably...]  
  
To be frank, what followed thereafter was like a scene out of some fiery human orgy:  
  
Oh my hearing aid...must I forsake you...  
I can't even hear his smile...  
  
The broken lyrics of an allegid opera diva while she and her treasure-hunting suitor romped  
across the parlor, wearing nothing but tapestries tied like togas around their frames. Hearing this,  
Locke would then genuflect and spin like a top, saying:  
  
Love goes aflight...like day into night...  
And...it makes me...wanna scream...  
  
  
Hang on. It gets worse.  
  
To Strago, the Retainer of Doma shouted, "Hey, you! Let's fight!"  
  
The blue mage sneered. "Them's be fightin' words!"  
  
And the two went down on the floor in wrinkly heaps, threatening to pull out their Kodachi's  
and Pearl Rods if the other didn't watch their step. I moved to intervene.  
  
"For...fuck...sakes, men!!!!" I grabbed a hold on the most proximate one, trying to find a  
handle on the situation. "You're Returners! What the fuck manner of solving your differences is  
this!!"  
  
As it turned out, it was Magus, the more elderly one, I pried from the duel. The wrong one.  
  
"Mindyourownbusinessboy!!"   
  
"Haverespectforyourelders!!  
  
"Didntyourparentsraiseyoubetterthanthat!!"  
  
"Whatsthisworldcomingto?!!"  
  
"Ioughtaknockthefegginfaceoffya!!"  
  
I never heard such an old fart speak so fast. Merely watching the mage lecture me made me  
feel like I was going to trip up over his tongue!  
  
"Let's do it, bro!" yelled Sabin to his brother from the table. "You and me!"  
  
Edgar squinted. "What the fuck are ya talkin' about?!"  
  
He didn't know. Neither of them did. Not that it mattered. The two had apprently found  
oblivion at the bottom of a bourbon bottle! Great. Now, I had a couple of regal crazies to explain  
as well. The two Figaro's started laughing. Jeering. Making catcalls at the opera defamers.  
Placing bets on the two geriatric brawlers. Just when it looked as though their episode would  
never find control, the two passed out in concert on the table, both their heads hitting the  
hardwood with dull thuds.  
  
"Your Majesty. . ." I began, and ducked as a human projectile swung like a pendulum from  
the chandelier above. "What the-"  
  
"UWAOO!!!"  
  
It was the Veldt child, hanging like a monkey on acid from a very expensive Figaro fixture  
and crying out like a banshee in the dark.  
  
Nothing unusual there, at least.  
  
BLAM!! BANG!! CRASH!!  
  
Inharmonious and swift, the Wandering Gambler, seeming to be in a world of his own, went  
about pitching a deck of extremely volatile Red Cards into the fireplace, setting off a string of  
vicious explosions that threatened to consume us all whole!!  
  
Fuck the role of a cleric. This was serious! "Setzer! For the love of Odin, man! Put the cards  
away! You're gonna kill us all!"  
  
But my warning was for naught, and flames and tinder continued to lash out vehemently from  
the hearth with every flick of the gambler's wrist.   
  
Was there some contagion going around that I wasn't aware of? Was this the Returners' way  
of celebrating the fall of Kefka? What could possibly explain such deterioration among them?  
  
Images, such as those I have just disclosed, I hold only as guide-pegs. Explaining it all, of  
course, was Terra Branford, who found solace in a distant corner of the room. Her emerald-blond  
hair was being thrown back over her right shoulder with every fiery explosion that Setzer was  
responsible for. She noticed nothing, not the lampshade over her head nor the yeti that was  
craddling her in its massive arms. She was far too busy being oblivious as her chubby white digits  
clutched a smoldering joint of some intrinsic drug. I sniffed the air and found, to my horror, that it  
reeked of Reagen. My jaw hit the floor.  
  
It can't be!!!  
  
But it was.  
  
Our saviors had fallen prey to the Marandian Dream. . .  
  
  
* - Thanks and praise goes out to Fred Russell, one wonderful bastard who inspired this entire  
chapter, not to mention this endearing and oh-so-true limerick. So Fred, if you ever stumble  
across this, I trust you had a wonderful time in Dominica. Remember your sunblock next time.  
It'll ward off the flies, not to mention those pesky pirates of the Caribbean! ^_^ 


	9. Another Relm

Fear & Loathing in South Figaro  
Chapter Nine: Another Relm  
  
Monday, 9:00am. The sun was hot and I felt like killing something. Anything. Even a gecko.  
Drill the fucker. I pulled out my assistant's crossbow from the duffle I hoarded in the mountains.  
Sleek and snub-nosed, it was a genuinely unpleasant thing to look at. Ugly-looking bolts rested in  
the chamber, seven-inch-long slugs tipped with diamond heads for maximum penetration. I let out  
a war whoop on the eastern hillock, hoping to rustle up one of the scaly bastards or even a  
scorpion. Why not? Give its stinger a run for its money. . .  
  
Then, movement. Subtle at first, as though it were making absolutely sure it heard me right,  
whatever it was. Soon enough, it was on the move, scrambling out across the valley floor. No  
time to act, no time to think. The hunt was on: a gazelle, probably forty yards away from my  
immediate position. It wouldn't have a chance. I was all the way up here, a shadow in the  
mountains. I may as well have been God, about to bring Judgement down on the oblivious and  
furry little fucker.  
  
But no. I had fouled things up yet again! Somewhere between the first and second shot, a  
terrible recoil knocked me off balance and threw me from my boulder, scaring breakfast back to  
its cubbyhole. Since when did that shit disturber of an assistant tell me the crossbow on his person  
was an auto?! Things were bad enough as they were with a crossbow that was banned in every  
last inhabited corner of the earth. But an auto?! Who the hell was dangerous enough to build one?  
Fanatics probably?  
  
I tossed the thing to one side, and tried relaxing. Sitting. Thinking. Brooding. One of the things  
I knew I couldn't do was forget. Our saviors were no more. The Marandian Dream had gotten  
them. All of them. There probably wouldn't be a pristine bone left in their bodies by midday. It  
was just as well, I suppose. Better to have the weak self-destruct now so that they couldn't spawn  
an entire legacy of loons who dance around in their drapery and swing from the rafters of  
extremely high ceilings.  
  
I had tried to run from it, but even up here, in the high and mighty reaches of the Figaro  
Knolls, I'd be the most conspicuous thing in this goddamn desert for the next five or six hours.  
The mental image I had of myself made me shutter: I was a hillbilly mental case in frayed  
clothing, with crossbow in one hand and kitbag in the other, one so full of felonies I was afraid to  
even hold it.  
  
As for my assistant. . .well, who cared?  
  
So, I ran. Big deal! Any sane person on the verge of a psychotic episode would have done the  
same. There was no point in both of taking us the full brunt of the consequences if the guilt could  
just as easily be born on the shoulders of a willing enemy.  
  
Given a more different perspective of the whole situation, however, I quickly realized that I  
shouldn't stay fastened to the thrill of disappearing. At least in prison, his troubles would be over.  
Hell, he'd even be fed for Christ sake. But I was still out here, drugged and set loose in the wild  
like some kind of an Imperial crossbreed experiment. And I, just like all my fast and furry  
counterparts, couldn't help but wonder the exact same thing.  
  
Just what the fuck was I doing out here?  
  
Was there a priest somewhere out in this god-forsaken desert? A real priest, I mean? I want to  
confess. I'm a sinner, Lord! In every sense of the word - venal, carnal, major, minor - you name it  
Lord, I'm guilty!  
  
But sweet Palidor, esper of all that befriends time, I know YOU will do me this one last favor.  
So please, just give me the time I need to finish this goddamn story. One Returner. It was all that  
remained. Someone called Relm, apparently the third of three female Returner members. That's  
not a whole lot to ask for, Palidor, because the final incredible truth is that, well, I'm not guilty!  
All I did was take your legacy seriously. All I did was tear-ass my way through the desert of life  
under the automatic assumption that I had more time than I knew what to do with.  
  
And now look at me: I'm half-crazy with fear, in the middle of this desert, trying to finish a  
story I never asked for, with an assistant I never wanted. And where's that time I asked you for?!  
My primitive esper worship has turned me into the very criminal the whole world has come to  
despise, that same Imperial jester with sand on his shoes and bats in his belfry! You evil bastard!  
This was your work all along!! You'd better take care of me Palidor, because if you don't...  
you're gonna have me on your hands!  
  
* * *  
  
Despite my juxtaposition, I knew for a fact that Relm was the last of the Returners and that  
somehow I had to find her. Only two points on the compass yielded promise without risk: east  
and west. Castle Figaro was due north and I'd be fucked for sure if I went back there. Barstow  
lay to the south, which was where this entire mess had started in the first place. No point in going  
back and run the risk of having the Wheel of Time crush me all over again.  
  
What would it be? East or west? South Figaro or Kohilegen? It pained me to decide between  
the two. Either way, I'd be met with no pleasantries and an awful sea of questioning eyes. I was  
an outlaw after all, having alienated our deliverers and reeking of substances that more  
appropriately belonged in a mobile police narcotics lab. But the day was dwindling and the girl  
wouldn't stay in the same town forever. . .  
  
These were my thoughts as a pigeon set itself down alongside me. I half-expected it to be a  
message from the boss, telling me that I was fired for using his name as an alias. Then, I found  
that it hadn't the crimson wings nor the curved bill of those bred in Maranda. This one was blue  
with a leveled bill, much like those cultivated for delivery purposes in Kohilegen.  
  
HORATIO ALGER  
c/o LOTHAR GOLDFIST  
OFFICE OF JOURNALISM  
KOHILEGEN  
  
There was only one person who was native to Kohilegen that knew my name and it was the  
exact same person whom I had abandoned back at Figaro Castle some seven hours earlier. I  
reached into the kitbag and produced several amyls. I inhaled one after the other. Bad news  
would well up on that horrible horizon at any minute and I wanted to be ready for it. I plucked the  
parchment out from beneath the bird's wing. It cooed and flew off. In large letters that were  
barely legible, the message read:  
  
URGENT NOTICE: REPLY TO MESSAGE IMMEDIATELY!!!!!!!!  
  
NEW ASSIGNMENT TOMORROW IN SOUTH FIGARO STOP WE ARE CORDIALLY  
INVITED TO THE FIRST ANNUAL WIZARD'S SYMPOSIUM ON ALCHEMY AND  
DANGEROUS SPELLS STOP HARD TIMES EDITOR TO PAY BIG CASH FOR FIFTY  
THOUSAND WORDS MINIMUM INCLUDING INCANTATIONS STOP WE HAVE  
RESERVATIONS AT THE FIGARO INN COMPLETE WITH ALL UTILITIES URGENT  
REPEAT URGENT STOP  
  
ZEN RAVENWOOD  
  
Jesus Creeping Shit. How did he get back to Kohilegen so fast? More to the point, how was  
he able to sink back in that little cubicle of his as though nothing had happened and manage to  
stumble onto yet another assignment for us? It was right then and there in which my embryonic  
Christian beliefs kicked in for the first time in life. My first impulse was to go out there to  
Kohilegen to find him, throttle him until he told me what he knew of the Figaro Castle incident,  
then unconditionally forbid him to go anywhere near South Figaro.  
  
But one drug-induced tirade inevitably leads to another. There was no escaping any of this.  
The fucker was probably already on his way to South Figaro if he wasn't there already. So, that  
was it then. I was going back to South Figaro; I had no choice.  
  
* * *  
  
Three hours later, I was slumped forward over an oracle's reflection table, listening to a  
woman who claimed to be the estranged wife of martial arts master, Duncan. I had upturned  
every last stone on Figaro soil. The mayor was thoroughly interrogated. Even the seafaring folk  
had been subject to my investigation. But there was no sign of my assistant. The only place I  
never bothered looking was the inn, and I was anxious of even approaching the innkeeper for fear  
that he would recognize me after scamming out the first time.  
  
"That Sabin was such a nice young fellow," the woman went on to say, "he'd always be more  
than willing to help that darling brother of his when he was in trouble. If it wasn't for him, I don't  
know how those Returners would have saved the world from that awful Mr. Kefka."  
  
Though bored, I humored her as best I could. It was the only real way to tie up what loose  
ends followed the more fragmented of my Returner interviews, and thus I found myself resorting  
to questions concerning the odd Returner like Gau or Mog or even Umaro. Anything to keep this  
naysayer at bay so that she might talk herself into some kind of dreamless slumber.  
  
"So, you recognize Sabin as a more pertinent factor to the fall of Kefka, then."  
  
"What? Oh, goodness no! What I meant to say was, Sabin placed family on a pedestal. It was  
his love for his brother that kept him party to the quest of saving the world. I suppose all of them  
Returners had their own reason for dispatching Kefka. But for the Figaro brothers, it was family."  
  
"I see." I pretended to scribble down most of what she was saying, intent on looking for an  
opening to leave. "I'd like to get off the topic of Sabin for a moment, if I may. Relm Arrowny.  
Quite the young individual for taking an active interest in such a dangerous campaign, wouldn't  
you say? The youngest of the group in fact, save for the yeti of course. What are your views on  
her involvement with the Returners?"  
  
For one fleeting moment, it appeared as though she lost interest in the interview. It was just  
the opening I had been looking for. . .  
  
"That child was incorrigible!" she blurted.  
  
Great.  
  
"She was a painter, if I'm not mistaken. Oh, and that Owzer! He was just plain sinister! He  
could have sooner encouraged that young woman to stay with him in Jidoor to pursue her dream  
as an artisan. But no! He was the first one to tell her to go off and join the anti-Kefka rally, saying  
that he'd be there when she got back, which he was I suppose. Still, it was no excuse. That  
darling young girl! How could anyone be so cold as to bring her along for the ride?! I oughta. . ."  
  
I had brought this on myself.  
  
"My good woman," I said at last, though her lips showed no signs of slowing, "the true reason  
I had brought her up was that I was hoping you could help me find her. She is the last of the  
fourteen Returners I was hoping to interview before the end of today. Do you have any idea  
where she is at the moment?"  
  
"Oh, those dastardly Returner folk! Not that I advocate imperialism, mind you! But how half-  
cocked are they to drag denizens from every corner of the world into their fight? Really makes  
you question who the true enemies are in this world, yes."  
  
No wonder she was estranged.  
  
"Alright, then," I said, slamming my ledger shut, "I believe I have everything I'm looking for.  
If you have any other statements you'd like to make, please feel free to send a carrier pigeon to  
the Office of Journalism in Maranda, and do highlight any points you wish to have emphasized."  
  
"Oh, but hang on a moment, dearie! You haven't heard the best part of this story! Have you  
heard about Duncan's other disciple. Vargas I think his name was! Oh, what a promising lad he  
was. He was always. . ."  
  
I closed her porch door loud enough for her to hear, but she just kept ranting on. What a  
windbag! I swear if I started pouring warm water over her, she would almost definitely start  
melting from all that pent-up hot air. It was clear to me at that point that my search for the girl  
would see no fruition talking to the Figaro folk. All I could do now was take my chances with the  
inn and authorities be damned.  
  
It would take another hour and a half to actually set foot in the place. Though it was only on  
the other side of a very small town, task mages and alchemists alike were wresting over space in  
line at the inn for accomodations. You know it'll be a bad day in South Figaro when the magic  
user behind you starts sketching lightning-elemental glyphs in midair. Just what the hell kind of  
mutant wizards were these? They couldn't have been here for the symposium if they were fixing  
to blast one another into oblivion.  
  
Or then again, maybe that's what the symposium was all about. Standing there in line, still  
some forty-odd yards away from the inn, I pulled the telegram from a very withered jacket  
pocket. Right then and there, my own worst fears were justified. 'Dangerous spells' shot up at me  
from the third line of the message. Great. An evening full of old farts debating as to which was  
the more efficient black magic spell. Meteo or Ultima? Merton or Quake? Sweet Jesus! They'd  
probably burn down the mayor's mansion while they were at it. The town would soon follow, and  
that would be the end of it.  
  
Quite the busy week for South Figaro.  
  
Again, I cracked open the kitbag, which was a ritual in itself for me. Small azure pills jostled  
around the bottom of the case. Blues. Depressants, I noted, and hastily threw several of the shiny  
things back. I began to mentally prepare myself for my inevitable encounter with the innkeeper at  
the head of the line.   
  
Okay. Be quiet. Be calm. Speak only when spoken to. State your name, rank, and press  
affiliation. Nothing else. They didn't need anything else. You were only a journalist. They'd  
understand. We'd both be in our element. We were, after all, professionals.  
  
But when I got there, everything went wrong. I miscalculated the distance to the front desk  
and smacked up against it. So long had I spent waiting in the line that I never even took into  
account the Blues that were inhibiting my nervous system. All my well-rehearsed lines fell apart  
under that woman's stony glare.  
  
"HI THERE!!" I roared. "My name...it's, uh...Lothar...Goldfist. A last name, that is...on the  
list...that's for sure. Free lunch...total wisdom...total coverage...my attorney...assistant...he's here.  
Waiting...he's actually my chauffeur. He's with me...not on the list, but of it! Right. So, what's  
the score, here? What's next?"  
  
The woman never blinked. "You're name is not on the list," she said, handing me an envelope,  
"but someone was looking for you."  
  
"No!" I screamed, sagging forward over the desk. "I haven't done anything yet! This is my  
first time in South Figaro! I swear it!"  
  
My legs felt rubbery. The exhaustion of being awake for three consecutive days had finally  
begun to take its toll on me. When my mind caught up with this message, it would instruct my  
body to unconditionally shut down. Then, I'd be dead weight for twenty straight hours.  
  
Things began to lose clarity. Those in the back of the line began shouting for me to pick up the  
pace. Terrible confusion. Fireballs and lightning bolts danced in the background but no one  
seemed to notice. Even the woman before me, who almost looked beautiful at one time, was  
starting to mutate: growing dervish horns; sprouting frog jowls; fuming an acrid yellow smoke  
that was throttling her co-workers to death.  
  
I couldn't take it.  
  
"I'll handle this."  
  
Not you again. . .  
  
But it was. Pudgy digits reached out across the toad woman to take the envelope I had refused  
in the first place. "My client suffers from a bad heart," he explained, "but I have plenty of  
medicine. Keep us informed. We'll be in our room."  
  
Zen.  
  
* * *  
  
I desperately needed peace. Rest. Sanctuary. With a large smelly arm wrapped around me, my  
assistant helped me up over the staircase and to our room. He looked different. His once unkempt  
head of soggy dark hair was now slicked back over his proportionate skull. He had long since  
shucked the frayed tunic and pantaloons for an emerald set of faith healer robes. Gone completely  
was the stench of alcohol and the slurred tone of voice. He was proper again.  
  
I thought I'd never live to see the day.  
  
"What the hell kind of fool are you?" I barked halfway up the stairwell. "Do you have any  
idea what the authorities'll do to us when they find us here? We'll be made for sure!"  
  
"That's what you get for leaving me back in that snake pit. You could be a little bit more  
appreciative than that, you know. I just got you out of a very ugly situation."  
  
Which was true. Nevertheless, it didn't change the fact that neither of us were supposed to be  
here. We had more enemies in this one town than anywhere else in the world. The stableman. The  
innkeeper. Hell, even the mayor was against us! Coming back here of all places was the worst  
career move either of us had ever made.  
  
"Just don't do anything stupid. That's all I'm asking for. You're only a rancher. The worst  
that can happen to you is they'll take your license to shoe chocobos. Do you know what happens  
to a journalist if he gets convicted of these felonies? They take his license to write. His license to  
write, I tell you!! If you separate a journalist from his writing, what have you got left?!"  
  
"A Surf Chaser," he noted with a wry grin.  
  
"You son of a bitch," I said. "Just take me to the room so I can get a few hours sleep."  
  
"It won't help you." All the same, he pulled out a ring of keys from his pocket and jammed  
them into the knob of room 129. "You've been awake for too long. Besides, the symposium starts  
in less than an hour."  
  
"Fuck the symposium!" I yelled, and kicked the unlocked door ajar. "I need rest!"  
  
A dull thump sounded on the other side. Curious, I peered in and found a unsteady young  
woman in a cornflower blue painter's beret behind the door. She walked on by the two of us, as if  
her head-on collision with the door never happened.  
  
"Don't I know you?" I asked her.  
  
She didn't seem to acknowledge our presence, only skulked on by and collapsed on one of the  
mattresses. She was so familiar. I knew I had seen her face somewhere before. Had it been...yes!  
The racing grounds! Sure, this was the very woman who had been roaming about the Figaro 400  
the day before last! The one who had helped me out of the sandstorm and into the comfort of the  
gaming tent. But why was she acting like this?  
  
"What did you do to her?" I ordered.  
  
"What did I do to who?" he asked, sitting beside her on the bed.  
  
"Who?! My uncle!! You know who I'm talking about!! Her!!"  
  
"Hey, relax." He picked up a bowl of green cherries and fed her in moderation. "This is the  
end of your story, man! You were looking for her, right?"  
  
"Well, yeah but. . ."  
  
"So, I found her for you."   
  
Yes, I thought. He found her. But to what lengths he took to get a hold of her I could only  
speculate. She had a hard time keeping her balance. She couldn't even keep her head level on her  
shoulders let alone walk straight. Her eyes looked distant and unresponsive. Scattered all around  
her bed were a sea of canvas drawings, sketched by the young girl no doubt. They were  
depictions of trail-worn explorers on relic hunts; prismatically dressed men emerging from the  
cavernous mouths of trench worms; Magitek Knights fending off Tunnel Armor's; espers ripping  
the world asunder; and various other things you'll only hear from barstool visionaries.  
  
"It's okay, Relm," he assured her, "he's only my client. That's Mr. Goldfist, famous  
journalist. He's loves artists."  
  
She nodded, seeming to understand. Could this young woman have been drugged?  
  
"Relm paints portraits of the Returners," he said, sucking back on a few of the cherries  
himself. "Right?"  
  
She tried speaking. "Um, I drew these from experience. Yeah. Um, I spend a lot of time with  
them, helped them save the world and stuff. Um, yeah. . ."  
  
To find my assistant high on ether and locked into some kind of preternatural courtship was,  
needless to say, very distressing. But it painted a very clear picture of where we were heading.  
We were all but outlaws now. Fugitives. For us, nothing would ever be the same again.  
  
"That's wonderful," I replied, grabbing a can of ale and heading for the door. "Can I talk to  
you for one second. Yeah, you!"  
  
My assistant pointed to himself, confused, then gave the girl a small pat on the back. "We'll  
be right back, Relm. My client and I just have a few things to discuss. Okay?"  
  
She said nothing, only sat gawking at her latest masterpiece: a coal drawing of Maria with  
teeth like baseballs and eyes like jellied fire. We headed back out into the hallway, where I hastily  
popped the cap on some much needed alcohol.  
  
"Well, what are your plans?"  
  
"Plans?" he asked.  
  
"Yeah. You know, the child in the bedroom!"  
  
"Oh, Relm. I met her at the racing grounds. She's really quite harmless, though. She's a  
religious freak."  
  
"Is that so?" I said.   
  
I knew exactly what was going on here. The state of the room said it all. It was one of those  
second-story soundproof suites, so no one would have stumbled on to their savage consumption  
of drugs. The caustic atmosphere of the room was enough to digest a car battery, sprinkled  
liberally with the fumes of almost every type of vaporous drug known to civilized man. "Well,  
things won't be so bad after all. We peddle her ass at the symposium, have a few task wizards  
use her for a spell dummy, and get ourselves some gil to work out an early retirement plan."  
  
He stared at me.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Yeah, it's straight economics. Don't worry about her. She can hold her own against those  
pigs. Hell, we could probably rake together a good three or four thousand gil in our first night."  
  
"Jesus," he said, his eyes suddenly angry, "I knew you were sick, but I didn't actually expect  
to hear you say that kinda shit."  
  
"It'd work, though. Setting her up in one of these soundproof suites, hang pictures of the  
Returners all over the room, and turn the wizard folk loose on her."  
  
"You filthy bastard! I oughta cave your fuckin' skull in! She's just a child!"  
  
"You have a better idea?"  
  
He began to understand where I was coming from. The girl was a potentially fatal milestone  
around both our necks. The youngest of the Returners, and therefore the most innocent, she would  
testify against us the second her head cleared and then they'd garrote us. Death on swift wings.  
  
Realizing this, my assistant broke down in the middle of the hallway, crying. "I want to help  
her, man! She needs someone to get her through this difficult time."  
  
"That, she does," I assured him, "but even if you beat the guillotine, they'll still send you back  
to Maranda for rape and consensual sodomy. Forget it, man. We have to get rid of her."  
  
"Shit," he muttered, "it doesn't pay to try and help somebody these days, man." 


	10. Megaelixir

Fear & Loathing in South Figaro  
  
Chapter Ten: Megaelixir...  
  
We decided that it was probably best to seat ourselves on the outer fringe of the convention.  
  
There was no sense in getting caught in the crossfire of some outlandish wizard's duel. All the  
  
other wizard and warlock underlings seemed to follow in our example. And why wouldn't they?  
  
Deafening blasts of lightning and acrid clouds of contagion seriously discouraged anyone from  
  
getting any closer than five rows from the front podium.  
  
Despite the entropy I felt, my demeanor as a journalist held up. I remember giving a handful  
  
of my dog-eared papers a shuffle, recognizing them as 'of the Returner Files'. It was like  
  
shuffling bootlegged gold. In times like these, you know that the choices you make will have to  
  
be carefully plotted. Play your cards right and you win big; get careless and you lose it all. Of  
  
course, a carefully thought out plan required time, which was the one luxury we were rapidly  
  
running out of.  
  
"So, what's the plan?" I whispered. Relm trailed close behind us as we took our seats, hands  
  
tightly clamped around her paintings and still oblivious to her surroundings. A definite plus. "We  
  
con the head mage into casting Sleep or something, right?"  
  
"Or Vanish," he replied, "whatever works."  
  
It seemed like a reasonable strategy, but I had my doubts. I was not a spellcaster; far from it in  
  
fact. For all either of us knew, these people were probably reading our minds even as we sat there  
  
contemplating our next move. What did they call those spells again? Scan, was it? It all force-fed  
  
a terrible mental image to me, one with everybody shooting up from their seats and turning to  
  
ostracize us for everything we had been held accountable for over the past few days.  
  
Thankfully, I wasn't the only one who was on edge that evening. I could take comfort  
  
knowing that my assistant was fidgeting in his seat over the presence of all these well-practiced  
  
sorcerers. I felt certain the itch was strong for those who had some new or improved elemental  
  
blast conjured up after all the time they had spent hiding in Thamasa. Hell, everyone felt that way  
  
who wasn't a mage or a mage's apprentice. This was nothing like the Returner gathering we had  
  
several days back; these were pissed off sorcerers! There were few willing to tell these people  
  
that magic was gone from the world.  
  
Should any be so bold as to tell them, there would be one fewer. . .  
  
"Look at this," my assistant told me, "I read about these bastards in 'War of the Magi', but I  
  
didn't believe they were real. Not like this. Not 'hundreds' of them!"  
  
I tried to console him. "They're actually pretty nice people once you get to know them."  
  
He smiled. "Know them? Hell, I know these people in my goddamn blood. They're  
  
responsible for the Ruination, after all."  
  
"Don't say that word around here. You'll get them excited."  
  
"Yeah, right." He turned to the seat at his immediate left. Relm was still there, though she  
  
appeared ready to fall asleep. "Everything alright, sweetie? You look a bit tired."  
  
No response, which I was glad for. The longer she was out of sync with our world, the better.  
  
By eight, the tally of mages had grown in leaps and bounds. Every last one of them wore a   
  
steepled hat; from our vantage point, it looked as though jagged mountain peaks were being  
  
rearranged by unseen hands. As we all made ourselves comfortable, a lovely looking woman  
  
stepped up to the front podium without warning. I could tell she was a white mage from her ivory  
  
garment and hood. It relieved me somewhat; at least not everybody in this room were hellbent on  
  
destroying something.  
  
"On behalf of the citizens of South Figaro and in the good name of all esperkind, I welcome  
  
you. . .welcome you. . .welcome you. . ."   
  
Her voice traveled across the room in confused waves, the direct result of low-fidelity  
  
speakers thrown together at the last minute to compensate for the turnout. Assuming that her  
  
introduction had the desired effect, the white mage continued.  
  
"We have called this symposium because there is a shared belief, among the public, that  
  
magic no longer exists." Her words stirred a commotion among the crowd. "Thus, to combat the  
  
situation, we have enlisted the aid of our most trusted advisor in the field of blue magic. Please  
  
give a warm welcome to our Thamasian comrade and slayer of the beast of Ebot Rock, Mr.  
  
Strago Magus. . .Magus. . .Magus. . ."  
  
The roof went up.  
  
"Strago Magus?!!" My cry carried faintly over the din of everyone else's hollering. But there  
  
was no mistaking what my ears heard and my eyes saw. There he was, saundering across the  
  
podium, a smile splitting his wrinkled face, and no where NEAR Figaro Castle!!  
  
"What's the problem?" my assistant asked, still in his seat.  
  
"You jest!! Didn't you just hear what she said?! It's Strago! He's here!"  
  
But he couldn't find the connection. "Good man," he said, "that Hidon got what he deserved."  
  
"You moronic fuck! Have you forgotten everything that happened back in Figaro Castle!?  
  
They're here!!"  
  
Even as he and I sat there silently arguing, Strago went on with his lecture. "Ladies and  
  
gentlemen, a sufficient way for us to approach this is to try and attempt to imagine what it is like  
  
in a world without magic. The lore of Thamasa has always taught us that a specific sequence of  
  
events are responsible for keeping all of our world's most vital cycles in sync with the passing of  
  
time. Life, technology, war, and even love, they are all considered to be fastened to the coils of  
  
existence through a force that we've come to call. . .magic. . .magic. . .magic. . ."  
  
I began to get the jitters. Was my throat locking up? This place was a death trap. Just cast  
  
Doom on me right now, Lord, and get it over with!  
  
". . .but I ask you, what is it that truly maintains this bond between magic and time? Does it  
  
have anything to do with our 'belief' in self-styled Goddesses? Or probably it stems from our  
  
conflict with the esper race a year or so ago, hmmm? No, my friends, for you see, magic IS time,  
  
and conversely, time is magic. If magic truly had left us with the exodus of esperkind, time  
  
would stand still, for there would be no force in which to propell the various cycles of our  
  
continuum. . .continuum. . .continuum. . ."  
  
And this was the quack that was supposed to be beguiling us? If these people knew just what  
  
it was he'd been doing last night in Figaro, he'd probably be crucified. He had been the sole  
  
conspirator of the magic/time theory simply because time was the single branch of necromancy  
  
that eluded his understanding. If I recall correctly, he even wrote a book on the subject less than  
  
four years ago, one which proved to be the single largest compendium of ideologic bullshit ever  
  
published. A bard would have him pistol-whipped; hell, I'D pistol-whip him if I were close  
  
enough to the naysayer. . .  
  
But not these people. They actually idolized him, were clinging to his every word in fact. Yet  
  
another reason why I had to get out of that place as soon as humanly possible.  
  
"What a fuckin' nightmare," my assistant grumbled, "these people don't know if they're  
  
coming or going!"  
  
I wrung my mind for some way to slip this strangling noose from around our necks. The white  
  
mage opened the floor for questions, but that wouldn't cut it. Asking him to let loose with a  
  
Vanish spell on his own granddaughter was just plain retarded. The old coot might have been  
  
crazy but he wasn't stupid; he knew our faces. Was it a conspiracy of his? Did he somehow know  
  
we were here?   
  
We were sitting ducks.  
  
"Mr. Magus," came an inquiring voice from the row before us, "is there any doubt in your  
  
mind that non-elemental magic can still be successful? What of a spell like X-Zone? Would  
  
something like that be independent of an esper's domain?"  
  
The cloud lifted.  
  
"There's only one way to truly answer that, my friend."  
  
The blue mage began sketching time-elemental glyphs in the air before the microphone. It all  
  
sounded too good to be true when my assistant nudged me. "What is it?"  
  
"Did he just say X-Zone?"  
  
"Yeah. So?"  
  
"Good God. . ."  
  
I had never experienced the full brunt of an X-Zone spell first-hand, so you can imagine my  
  
surprise when our amphitheater was suddenly transformed into a vicious maelstrom of wind and  
  
temporal flux. My first impulse was to flee, but gravity had already abandoned every conceivable  
  
direction. Chairs uplifted, flinging helpless mages through the air. The very podium down front  
  
shot up erect, hurling Strago and the screaming white mage across the room. Three ultrasonic  
  
blasts later, a vortex, dark and bottomless, quavered into existence on the far side of the  
  
auditorium.  
  
I remembered feeling a trifle stupid for wondering if all those pointed hats would embed  
  
themselves like darts into all that stucco and marble. My aide, by this time, was clinging  
  
precariously to the frame of an open windowsill, his profanity lost to the arcane winds. "As your  
  
assistant. . ." he finally said.  
  
"Shut up!" I yelled, practically wrestling for my own handhold over the ornate edge of a  
  
balcony. I tried my absolute best not to look out for fear of tensing up at the vertigo. But, in the  
  
end, my concern for Relm superceded my own personal safety.  
  
"What happened to the girl?! Where is she?!"  
  
But my voice was traveling on volatile winds. In the midst of an X-Zone tempest, you could  
  
hear nothing or say nothing, not when the very fabric of reality depended on your keeping  
  
absolutely quiet. Not that it mattered any; it was clear from the semi-ominous waltz of Zoneater  
  
paintings that the girl was long gone.  
  
We'd be fucked for sure now, I thought.  
  
Screams could be heard as the magic zephyrs elapsed, only to die out all over again as their  
  
possessors were sucked out of existence through the burnt-out end of the space-time rift. I never  
  
bothered waiting around for my assistant. For all I knew at the time, he was probably sucked in  
  
with Relm. It seemed fitting. Let the girl be his problem. It was high time for the journalist to get  
  
his ass back to Maranda, where things made sense.  
  
  
  
* * *  
  
I couldn't cope with it. There was nothing but violent mages and fragile reality in this  
  
doomstruck town. It was essential, I felt, to leave immediately. If not for Maranda, than for  
  
anywhere. Hell, even Zozo sounded pretty good at this juncture!  
  
I remembered staggering along the streets of Figaro, trying desperately to look normal again.  
  
My exposure to the anomaly had more adverse an effect on me than I realized was possible. The  
  
continuum is a very funny thing, since its domain is commonly the world that exists between  
  
worlds. Being deprived of reality for so long tends to make it quite the voracious creature when it  
  
comes to assimilating it.   
  
I felt as though it had sucked me dry. Depravation of reality was almost like getting high on  
  
ether, but without that heightened sense of awareness or self-esteem. I could only hope that it  
  
blew over by the time I was back on Marandian soil.  
  
It wasn't until after I was back on our floor that I was faced with a somewhat inconvenient  
  
reality: no key. My assistant must have had it on him. But then, I thought 'No problem', and  
  
plowed my through our room door. It was late, so there would be no one around to convict me.  
  
Besides, I was practically a felon in my own right anyways. What difference would a little break-  
  
and-enter do?  
  
My duffle was right where I left it, slumped upright in the corner like a drunkard after  
  
midnight. With it, I proceded to stock up on whatever appeared important for the journey at hand.  
  
A complementary bathrobe. Our freshly pressed linen sheets, perhaps. A bottle of brandy from  
  
the pantry and even one of our bedside lamps, a little something I could probably have appraised  
  
by the time I reached Barstow.  
  
I was still a bit out of it, mind you.  
  
The absolute last thing I was expecting that night was my assistant making a less than graceful  
  
return. I gave him as little of my attention as possible. At this juncture, I had developed quite the  
  
biased frame of mind towards the goon, believing that anything so much as acknowledging his  
  
existence would prove detrimental to my progress, possibly even my life.  
  
"You left early," he said, "What gives? I thought you had a story to cover?"  
  
I jammed another handful of clothing into the duffle and pulled tight on the drawstring. My  
  
assistant may as well have been a fart in the wind.  
  
"Where are you going? You can't leave! This room's in my name!"  
  
I shrugged and continued packing.  
  
"It's all gone too fuckin' far, man! I'm head back!"  
  
For a moment, he looked ready to snap, as though he had suddenly caught on that he had been  
  
the scapegoat the entire time. Then, he relaxed again.  
  
"As your assistant, I advise you not to worry. Go and take a hit from the bottle in my shaving  
  
kit. It'll perk you right up."  
  
He had finally gotten my attention.  
  
  
  
"Which bottle?" I asked defeatedly, probing about in the bathroom for a little salvation.  
  
"You'll know it when you see it," he assured me. He sat down next to the window, suddenly  
  
fostering some arcane love for moonbeams refracting in the open sea.  
  
I finally produced a small translucent vial, one filled with a potion that kept changing colors  
  
and emitting a strange glow.  
  
"What is this stuff?"  
  
He replied without turning. "A little something that makes pure Reagen seem like cherry soda.  
  
It's called Megaelixir."  
  
"Megaelixir, huh?"  
  
I sat myself down on a bed across the room, still choosing to examine the concoction before  
  
trying any. I had heard of it before but I couldn't be sure where.  
  
"What kind of monster client have you hooked up with this time?"  
  
"Kefka worshipper." I saw him take a hit from his hashpipe. "Just be careful with it. You'll go  
  
completely crazy if you take too much."  
  
I wetted a matchtip and let a few drops roll over my tongue. "I think I heard of this stuff  
  
before. One source for it, if I remember correctly: the adrenaline gland of an esper."  
  
"I know." I didn't like the sudden tone of his voice. It sounded evil. Impure. "Kid had no  
  
money to pay me for shoeing his chocobos. So, he forked over an ounce or so of pure Megaelixir,  
  
telling me that it'd get me higher than I'd ever been in my life. I thought he was just joking."  
  
"Is that a fact?"   
  
But I could barely hear myself speak by this time. I could already feel the stuff working on  
  
me. My body felt as though it had just been plugged into a 220-volt socket. A few more drops, a  
  
voice kept saying. Just a few more drops. . .  
  
"Makes perfect sense," I uttered. "Now, I know why that guy was talking about the dead esper  
  
in Zozo. Hell, those Fanatics are goddamn cannibals! They probably won't be satisfied until they  
  
have every last esper crucified."  
  
After some time (I'll never be sure how long), my assistant lost interest in the moon and went  
  
to sit beside me. He was there, but I barely noticed him. The room was getting hot. Something  
  
was smoldering. All around me, I saw fire and brimstone. I wanted to leave. Oh, how I wanted to  
  
leave! But the stuff had already gotten to my leg muscles, utterly contracting them. Nothing had  
  
ever done this to me before. Nothing. . .  
  
"Real cold fish, this guy was." Ifrit stood just by my bedside, moving in concert with the  
  
quickly flickering flames. "Told me watch myself and how I treated the stuff. But I just laughed  
  
and took a hearty swig of the shit. Man, it was like a fuckin blast furnace went off in my head!"  
  
"BLAST FURNACE!!" I growled. "FANTASTIC! WHAT HAPPENED NEXT?!"  
  
"Luckily, I threw most of the stuff back up again. Man, my head must have swelled up like a  
  
watermelon. I grew these claws, bleeding warts. . ."  
  
"YES!!"  
  
"And there's more," he said.  
  
"MORE?!" I yelled.  
  
Absolutely no control now. My fingers clawed at the bed, ready to yank the mattress right out  
  
from under me. I leaned towards him, following his words intently. The slightest hesitation made  
  
me want to grab him by the throat and force him to talk faster.  
  
"Well, like the goddamn werewolf he is, he never told me about the other side effects. . ."  
  
"THAT GODDAMN WEREWOLF!!" I agreed.  
  
". . .and the next thing I know, I feel these hairy bumps swelling up on my back! And when I  
  
tried to scream for help, I sounded like a raccoon!"  
  
"FINISH THE FUCKING STORY!" I snarled. "WHAT HAPPENED?! WHAT ABOUT  
  
THE GLANDS?!"  
  
He stopped without warning, as if something else had him sidetracked. Every single muscle in  
  
my body had contracted by this time. I couldn't even move the eyes in my head let alone turn my  
  
head and talk.  
  
The Ifrit demon backed away, looked perplexed at my condition. "Maybe you need another  
  
drink," he said, "Jesus. That stuff got right on top of you, didn't it?"  
  
My mouth fumbled for an answer. "Nothing. . .worse. . .no, this IS worse. . ." My tongue   
  
burned like a brazier. It hurt to even move it. "I'll be fine," I wheezed, "Maybe you could just  
  
shove me into the pool. . ."  
  
"Hell man, if I put you the pool right now, you'd sink like a goddamn stone." He sat back in  
  
his chair by the window. "You took way too much, man. Even a magic user will tell you that  
  
you're never supposed to take more than quarter of the bottle at a single time. It's mainly used for  
  
strengthening warlocks during a wizard's duel. Hell, even a quarter of the stuff can kill you."  
  
I had emptied the bottle. That much I was sure of. Such a terrible feeling to just sit there  
  
unmoving, realizing that my demise was a foot. Not even my lungs seemed to be working. I'd  
  
need artificial respiration but I couldn't open my mouth to say so.  
  
"What. . .have you. . .done. . ."  
  
"Just try and stay calm. Don't fight it, or you'll give yourself an aneurism. You'll just wither  
  
up and die. . ."  
  
Death. I was so absolutely sure of it. I should have just left while I was in control. Then, some  
  
alien drug comes along and paralyzes the very core of my being.  
  
Well, at least there was no pain. I'd probably black out after a few hours. After that, it  
  
wouldn't matter.  
  
I could hear but a single voice. It was our old transistor radio crooning out a recording of the  
  
late Emperor Gestahl, but his voice was hopelessly garbled. The only thing I could make out was  
  
'A secret place'. Over and over again.  
  
A secret place. . .  
  
A secret place. . .  
  
A secret place. . .  
  
He was still in my head when I blacked out. . . 


	11. bReKdWn!

Fear & Loathing in South Figaro  
  
Chapter Eleven: bRe@Kd*Wn...!?  
  
Editor's Note: At this point in the chronology, it would appear that Mr. Goldfist has broken down  
  
completely. All efforts to find his original manuscript and transcribe it into a readable text were  
  
for naught and Mr. Goldfist refused to even acknowledge its existence. There was simply no way  
  
to get a hold of him.  
  
Thus, in the interest of journalistic purity, we bring to you, the readers, the only true segment of  
  
Mr. Goldfist's lost journal that we were able to translate. They seem to involve him and his  
  
assistant finally abandoning the Returner story and venturing to find the Marandian Dream  
  
somewhere beyond the grim confines of the 'Symposium on Alchemy and Dangerous Spells'.  
  
Unfortunately, given his state of mind at this point, the anecdote appears as nothing more than a  
  
convoluted narrative of an immensely nonsensical nature. True translation, it seems, can only be  
  
borne with the imagination of our fellow readers.  
  
Your guess is as good as ours.  
  
[- -Horatio Alger; Office of Journalism, Maranda]  
  
* * *  
  
"I think we found it."  
  
"This is it! The Marandian Dream! If only Ziegfried could see us now!"  
  
"Yeah, yeah! Don't get ahead of yourself!"  
  
I suppose one could forgive the lout for being too cautious. There was too much urgency in  
  
his voice for him to sound bombastic. The reasons, of course, more than spoke for themselves:  
  
somehow, without our knowing of it, we had fallen into the earth, surrounded by things that were  
  
fiery, incorporeal, and accompanied with the unrelenting fetor of arsenic, sulfites, and smoke. Of  
  
course, my assistant was quick to share little, if any, insight or commentary for the predicament.  
  
The words of some moogle kingpin drew him away from the horror of it all, a moogle who just  
  
happened to be sitting at the head of a very large and crude table of volcanic glass.  
  
Maybe we were just ghosts, and this was Nifleheim . . .  
  
"Hey Goldfist! In or out?!"  
  
"How'd you know my name?" I snarled.  
  
"Don't let these caverns fool you," he said, "word gets around."  
  
"Is that so?"  
  
"Come on. We need a fourth."  
  
How a snide moogle and a jittery imp were able to carry on a game of Hearts in this place I  
  
had no idea. Every so often, gouts of magma would flare up from below, threatening to reduce us  
  
all to crispy critters. Somehow, neither of them would let such panorama dampen their spirits.  
  
So, I sat in concert with my assistant, paying particular attention to the imp across the way. It  
  
carried chips on both shoulders and a tick that made me nervous. It was going to snap at any  
  
minute. I just knew it!  
  
"So," the moogle said, and resumed his card shuffling, "what is it that you said you folks were  
  
looking for, again?"  
  
"Not looking for," I said, "Found! The Marandian Dream! Hell, we never even had to look for  
  
it! It was right under our noses the whole time!"  
  
"I stand corrected." Kiwan was an interesting character, if ever I saw one. He had a talk and a  
  
motion that went a few notches over condescension. There was a cigar bobbing about in his  
  
mouth the whole time, which put him far from all those 'Kupo! Kupo!' stereotypes that were  
  
synonymous with Narshe. "So, tell us. What exactly is the Marandian Dream?"  
  
"Anarchy," my assistant muttered, giving me a sidelong glance as he moved to gather his  
  
hand. Nothing became quite as serious to him as poker. "That's one word for it, anyway."  
  
"Well, anarchy is a bit of an understatement." I glared down at my hand. Nothing but a  
  
seven-high. Kiwan, you whore! "But my associate understands this concept, despite his  
  
occupational handicap. Do you?"  
  
He shook his head. I shrugged and moved my chair (rock) in closer. The large slab of obsidian  
  
was far too big and there weren't enough chairs/rocks for us all. Of course, imps and moogles  
  
carried the advantage of being perpetually small creatures. Two of each could sit upon one chair  
  
easy, which did a lot for the lack of space on our precipice.  
  
  
  
When it appeared evident that neither of them was going to respond, I added, "Well, we  
  
answered your questions, Kiwi, so the least you can do is answer one of ours. What's with the  
  
imp? He looks to be in dire straits!"  
  
"First of all, it's Kiwan, not Kiwi!" I promptly apologized. "And secondly, try not to worry too  
  
much about Thompson. He'll be fine so long as he doesn't get his hands on any Reagen."  
  
My heart put on its spiked shoes and went for another lap.  
  
"You mean drugs?" I asked.  
  
A nod. "He's quite depressed."  
  
"Depressed?"  
  
"He's trying to quit."  
  
"Oh."  
  
[Indecipherable text . . .]  
  
It was as if no matter where we went, some crude fate always conspires to land us right in the  
  
middle of yet another drug-related nightmare. It was all bad enough that I was forced to contend  
  
with liquid magma and volcanic toxins, but this imp could very easily be harboring some sort of  
  
vendetta against me and my assistant. It looked as though it didn't quite have its head screwed on  
  
straight. When it finally spoke, I jumped for cover, half-expecting it to scuttle across the table  
  
and rip out my pineal gland.  
  
"Kappa," it said.  
  
"Is that supposed to be the imp equivalent of 'kupo'?" My assistant looked confused.  
  
"Kappa," I replied. "Maybe he's in a fraternity or something."  
  
His being in a fraternity would have at least explained the gritty fascination with drugs. But  
  
Kiwan shook his head.  
  
"You boys are way off. Let's put it this way . . ." He paused briefly to check up on the ante.  
  
"Kappa is, to the imps, what that Mog fellow was to the moogles. They're head honchos.  
  
Kingpins. Ya read me?"  
  
"I read you," said my assistant, surrendering his cards.  
  
"Wish I could say the same."  
  
"What?"  
  
"What I mean is, what does Kappa have to do with anything?"  
  
"Ah," Kiwan replied. "Well, Kappa is Thompson's role model. Taught him that there was  
  
more to life than all those magic tokes, and the like. Probably just misses his mentor."  
  
Again, my assistant nodded. I felt for him; things had definitely failed to achieve our interest  
  
by this time. Things would have probably been a little more interesting to see how an imp's body  
  
chemistry reacted to ether, or even a few Green Cherries! He'd probably be up on this  
  
volcanic-glass table in no time to pull off a few hallucinogenic-fueled parlor tricks.  
  
Suddenly, my assistant leaned over and spoke to me. His eyes looked nervous. "Where's the  
  
hashpipe?"  
  
I fumbled for an answer. "The kitbag's gone, too!"  
  
We both looked across the way just in time to find the Thompson imp signing all of our death  
  
warrants. He was powing down on OUR Reagen!  
  
"NO!" we cried, but we were two seconds too late.  
  
By that time, the imp had gone loco - and all hell broke loose . . .  
  
* * *  
  
"Albrook and Tzen just joined the pool!" The gambler nudged me at ringside. He insisted on  
  
being present; profiteering, he said, was largely a measure of how much interaction existed  
  
between a bookie and his client. He seemed quite adamant about it. "The odds are running thirty  
  
to one against you. Ten to one says that you'll get KO'ed before the fifth and four to one before  
  
the round even starts, but think of the payoff if you manage to beat those odds!"  
  
"Thirty to one?!" I felt like killing him. "You rat bastard! I'll pound you for this!!"  
  
"Fine," said Setzer, pocketing his notebook, "if you can't trust your friends, then you're on  
  
your own!"  
  
"No, wait . . ."  
  
But he had already disappeared in a tide of spectators.  
  
"Relax, soldier," said Cyan, popping a mouthguard between my jaws. "I've seen the way this  
  
imp moves. If it's Reagen he's on, then he'll concentrate on your midsection."  
  
"A moogle's height," I replied.  
  
"Exactly. It's probably part of an imp's hallucination. Anyways, just keep your guard up and  
  
keep your elbow low when you throw with your right!"  
  
I could hear the crowd grow restless. Confidence was high, but I couldn't shake this bad  
  
feeling I was having . . .  
  
"What if it's not Reagen he's been having?! What if it's something like ether?!"  
  
"Hmmm . . ." And suddenly, Strago was climbing up into the corner with me. "A depressant,"  
  
he noted, "yet, if he wields any type of magical ability, you may find yourself face up on the mat  
  
before you even know what hit you!"  
  
"What do you suggest?!"  
  
"Stay on the defensive! Throw as many hooks as you can, and then get out before he throws  
  
an elemental at you!"  
  
Cyan seemed to agree.  
  
"What if it's Megaelixir he's on?!"  
  
Cyan sighed. "Then, you've already won! No one can keep their balance on a hit of  
  
Megaelixir, let alone throw a punch! Now, get in there!"  
  
Inside the ring, Celes was prancing about in an emerald two-piece, proudly holding a 'Round  
  
2' over her head while Sabin, clad in black and white stripes, readied himself to officiate. A  
  
misdirected right cross on the part of my opponent had laid the original referee out cold.  
  
That poor treasure hunter . . .  
  
"Okay! Now, let's see those gloves!" Thompson and I butted our fists. "Alright! Begin!"  
  
And before anyone knew what to expect, our SECOND official had been rendered  
  
unconscious, the fault of a very literal kitchen sink. It had come courtesy of the meanest bull I  
  
had ever locked horns with. The crowd hissed at the poor sportsmanship.  
  
"Claud!" I barked, gritting my teeth, "It'll take more than a few knocked-out referees to keep  
  
this journalist away!"  
  
Quite abruptly, I began to pick up on the redolence of ether on the imp's breath, but before I  
  
could react the imp vanished and was replaced with the frightful visage of a muscled gargantuan  
  
almost five times my size! The imp had summoned a Titan!  
  
"It'll take something like you," I murmured.  
  
With each swing of its massive limbs, the world did another lap around me. CRING!  
  
CRACK! WHOMF! I could see Strago and Cyan calling out to me from the corner, but most of  
  
what they were throwing at me was lost in the wind of the Titan's onslaught. The next thing I  
  
knew, I was falling backwards toward the mat . . .  
  
* * *  
  
. . . and crashing through a stain glass skylight.  
  
"Got any Jacks?"  
  
"Goldfish."  
  
"Where?!"  
  
Looming above me and from all around were these twisted parodies of the living. Burning  
  
cobalt eyes, suctioncup tentacles, spiked manes, and beastly, magenta-hued hulks were all that  
  
could be determined of their appearance. It was enough, however, to know that they were not  
  
good company. None of them were smiling, yet the flesh of each face was wrapped so tightly  
  
around their skull that they appeared to be grinning perpetually, almost sadistically.  
  
But what was this? There were playing cards being held in those tentacles . . .  
  
With a voice like a leaky tire valve, one of them said, "Do you mind?! We're trying to play a  
  
game, here!"  
  
I screamed.  
  
* * *  
  
"This is a most disturbing realm you've fallen into, Mr. Goldfist."  
  
"No kidding! I don't even box!"  
  
I eventually got lost and found myself before an individual who called himself the Caretaker,  
  
though his more than eccentric attire, not to mention testimonies from the Returners, led me to  
  
believe that this was, in fact, the master of the simulacrum himself - Gogo.  
  
"Of course, you've always suspected that you'd wind up here sooner or later, didn't you?"  
  
"What do you mean?" I asked.  
  
"You really don't know, do you?"  
  
Before chancing a reply, one garbed in all black raiments grabbed me.  
  
"Then, allow us to reiterate," he muttered into my ear.  
  
* * *  
  
[Prior to transcribing the first part of this next passage, there were at least three indented  
  
pages which, quite simply, read only as 'A hard shot . . .' over and over again. Most likely, it is an  
  
aberration of free association writing, one which Mr. Goldfist simply forgot to exclude from his  
  
manuscript . . .]   
  
"A hard shot to the head and neck collapses the carotid artery and cuts the flow of the blood to  
  
the brain! The hook!" The ninja swung a fist at the air, then bent his head back for good measure.  
  
"The head and neck twist laterally, traumatizing the cerebral tissue!"  
  
The one called Shadow made a note of rubbing salt into a wound of defeat by miming a series  
  
of his own blocks and punches while Gogo, taking up space in the background, mimicked each  
  
of his techniques with uncanny precision.  
  
"And who can forget the uppercut?! The head snaps back, rupturing tissue in the cerebellum  
  
and upper spinal cord!! YES!!!" He ceased his air curtailing and began to approach me. "And the  
  
result of all this poetry in motion? Neurologic dysfunction! Chronic traumatic encephalopathy!  
  
Loss of balance! And coordination! Lost of memory . . ."  
  
He gritted his teeth.  
  
"Sound familiar?"  
  
"Painfully," I replied. "I know what you're trying to do. My bout with the imp. It's a symbol  
  
for yet another bout, one which I've been losing for a very long time. Is that just about right?"  
  
"Try not to flatter yourself," said a third voice from the shadows. It was young and feminine,  
  
much like Relm's used to be. "Your instincts as a journalist have betrayed you. Men, such as  
  
yourselves, are bound by the oath of finding the truth, no matter the risks involved. Only now,  
  
Mr. Goldfist, it seems that you're in over your head."  
  
"You'd be wise to listen to her," Shadow urged me, "the girl speaks the truth."  
  
"What girl? I don't see anyone! Anywhere!"  
  
And then, sure enough, Relm emerged from out of the shadows. It had been the third time in  
  
the course of my odyssey in which she chose to make an appearance.  
  
"What's the matter?" she asked, when I failed to respond. "Memory loss again?"  
  
"I can't remember . . ."  
  
Man, this was crazy. I hope I didn't brain my damage . . .  
  
* * *  
  
[Preceding the next of our cryptic passages were a series of sloppily drawn pictures that, only  
  
vaguely, resemble the fabeled Hidon beast of Ebot Rock. All attempts to associate these images  
  
with Mr. Goldfist's tale have come up short, although it could help to mention that one of his  
  
former assignments entailed a thorough interview with Gungho von Thamasia . . .]  
  
I recall somehow leaving the dark void of the simulacrum. The taunts and accusations of faces  
  
better left unremembered were giving me headaches, which were the last things a dope fiend like  
  
myself needed. I ran until my muscles creaked and my lungs roared. Where it was I couldn't say:  
  
I was hot and I was cold; I was high and I was low; it was dark and it was light; I was everywhere  
  
and nowhere. All were one and the same.  
  
The road less traveled didn't have yellow bricks, and it was none the easier to find a handle on  
  
things when it ended. Things were exploding. Things were imploding. People were shouting  
  
while others whispered. All seemed to be directed at me. Terrible confusion. Some knew me by  
  
name, others knew me as simply 'Hey you'. It was the kind of thing that happens to druggies  
  
when they take too many LSD donuts and convince themselves that they were something they  
  
weren't, like astrologers, clowns, or trees.  
  
A kaleidoscope of virtual insanity - and it never stopped spinning.  
  
"Goldfist!"  
  
Kiwan? My Goddess! I was back! A distant hiss of geothermal pressure reminded me where I  
  
was: back underground. But was it legit? Could that voice be trusted? And if it could, would it  
  
tell me exactly where 'back' was this time around?  
  
"What the fuck's going on?! What happened to the imp?!"  
  
"You son of a bitch!" he went on to say. "That bastard kitbag of yours has opened a Pandora's  
  
Box! It's Thompson! He's . . ."  
  
"He's what?"  
  
"Goddess, he went crazy! It started with just hassling that big-bellied friend of yours, but  
  
before long, he let out this shriek and Zen reacted by throwing an ether flask at him! He went  
  
absolutely bonkers!! Jumped off his stone like a goddamn jack-in-the-box he did, then he took a  
  
bite out of the guy's arm!"  
  
"Shit!" I said. "Where is he now?"  
  
"Who? Zen?"  
  
"What? Fuck him! The imp! Which way did he go? I'll give you seven hundred gold pieces up  
  
front for him! Take it or leave it!"  
  
"What? You must be kidding!"  
  
"I shit you not, goddamn it! I WANT that imp! It's a magnificent specimen!"  
  
And it was. There had been enough narcotics in that kitbag of ours to kill a mastodon.  
  
Knowing that he had probably taken all of it and lived could say a lot for an imp's physiology.  
  
Such knowledge could probably mean millions if the right hands ever found it. A get-rich-quick  
  
scheme, admittedly, but one I intended to capitalize on.  
  
"It'll tear your head off!" he warned.  
  
"I'll grow a new one!" I fired back.  
  
But breaking my reverie was the sound of a throat gurgling, and then snarling. Bones could  
  
suddenly be heard breaking just around the bend and a distasteful spitting sound told me that the  
  
victim had not fallen from a precipice but into the gullet of a . . . well, a something. A BIG  
  
something! No way it could have been Thompson. Not even Megaelixir has that kind of an  
  
effect!  
  
"Where of that bastard imp?!" the creature roared, suddenly throwing its massive head over  
  
the promontory to confront us.  
  
"You, too?" I asked. "My, that Thompson's a popular one, isn't he?"  
  
"WHERE?!"  
  
You know it's going to be a bad day when you find yourself staring down the ugly muzzle of a  
  
winged eidolon that was twelve times the size of God. But what made such an encounter all the  
  
more ominous was the fact that he was addressing you in the manner of a mercenary for hire,  
  
inquiring quite sternly as to whether or not you've seen an imp pass by recently. It probably  
  
wanted to swallow him whole.  
  
"That depends on what your business is with him," I told him. "A meal, perhaps?"  
  
"A meal? Faugh!" The esper's mane bristled. "Why should the mighty Bahamut make a meal  
  
out of the most distasteful of all your races. That addict would make a much better toothpick!"  
  
"Indeed!" I said to him, trying to throw off his frantic search. "So, why half-kill yourself over  
  
such an unworthy tidbit?"  
  
A horrible grating sound followed, which I assumed was the creature laughing. "My intention  
  
towards that nettlesome imp is not one of nourishment! I seek only to silence him. It has, after  
  
all, awaken me from an age-old slumber."  
  
For the first time since I had found myself down here, things appeared to make sense. This  
  
thing, this serpent, had a name synonymous with esper mythology. Bahamut, it had said. Their  
  
kind, on the other hand, had been expunged from the world when Terra and the Returners  
  
defeated Kefka. There could be no esper resting deep in the earth, no matter how much it wanted  
  
to believe it was.  
  
The only solution?  
  
It was a hallucination. All of it. Its lucidity was directly proportional to the puissance of some  
  
divine narcotic. But how long had these illusions been playing with my head? Had it been a  
  
matter of hours? Days, even?  
  
By the heart of Joven, we were breaking down!  
  
* * *  
  
"I'll take care of him!" said a voice, and I looked as a pearl-white apparition with violet hair  
  
came down from above and started provoking the serpent even further. "Find your friends and  
  
leave while you still can!"  
  
"You're not real!" I heard myself say, being reminded of the esper girl.  
  
"Gee, thanks a lot!" she replied in blasting the creature with a searing ball of blue energy.  
  
"Hallucinations are the least of your worries, right now! I suggest you seize this opportunity  
  
before the dragon seizes you!"  
  
"But the imp-"  
  
"Watch out!" And suddenly, King Edgar himself was on the scene, wielding one of his  
  
patented autocrossbows and the fiery will to use it. "Don't move!" he warned, "or I shall shoot  
  
those wings of yours full of holes!"  
  
"Yeah!" wheezed Relm as she appeared from out of another dark cavern with a paintbrush in  
  
her hand. "And I'll paint your portrait!"  
  
"Yeah!" I joined in, pulling out a writing stylus. "And I'll do your biography!"  
  
Silence. Even the serpent seemed to pause long enough to give me a queer look.  
  
I shrugged. "You'd be surprised what a few white lies will do to a dragon's reputation."  
  
The monarch rolled his eyes. "Mr. Goldfist, if you don't mind . . ."  
  
"Huh? Oh yeah! Well, good luck!"  
  
I turned tail and ran for the nearest cave, hoping for the best. I suppose Kiwan was right after  
  
all. The imp was a lost cause, and things were about to get volatile in that twisted grotto of ours.  
  
There was no sense in arguing with friends, especially when they just happened to be figments of  
  
your imagination!  
  
* * *  
  
[A large number of glaring omissions surfaced as we went about deciphering Mr. Goldfist's  
  
lost journal, omissions which are probably more than evident for the reader as well. They have  
  
become impossible to translate, due to a viscous liquid stuck to several pages that caused the  
  
passages to completely degrade. There are, however, many eye witness reports saying that a  
  
poorly dressed priest and a chocobo rancher set fire to a grotto home for no apparent reason.  
  
Several Returners were swiftly dispatched to 'deal with the problem'. The grotto was the property  
  
of a moogle named Kiwan and an imp by the name of Thompson. - -Horatio Alger] 


	12. Course Oblivion

Fear & Loathing In South Figaro  
  
Chapter Twelve: Course: Oblivion!  
  
Somehow, my assistant and I found ourselves in Zozo. What it was that compelled us to come  
  
here of all places I have no idea, nor if I did would I venture to say. Zozo was, after all, the kind  
  
of township in which any wayfarer on the street could, in an instant, rape you, pillage you, and  
  
then send you a bill for the labor. It's the kind of place you find yourself in when you fucked up  
  
one time too many in South Figaro, and no other township on the continent was willing to  
  
acknowledge your existence.  
  
It was all very foreboding. Here we were, in the dead center of the most ruthless town on  
  
earth, where rainclouds hang like curses over your head and any sound you hear around a street  
  
corner meant that something bad was about to happen. I slowly went paranoid in that place. I  
  
remembered feeling as though I had been drawn by the Megaelixir to find what unfortunate esper  
  
it had been extracted from and give it a decent burial so that its spirit could find rest. Note to self:  
  
never have children. No offspring of mine deserves to inherit this outlandish legacy which I had  
  
been responsible for bringing to life.  
  
"Let's get something to eat," my assistant suggested. "The stuff they serve ya on those boats  
  
may as well have been eaten by someone else."  
  
I hastily agreed. His boat wouldn't be leaving until dawn, which was still some three hours  
  
away. It'd be good to finally be rid of him, but until I was he'd still need a hand to get him to the  
  
pier. He had been vomiting fairly regularly by that time, and he could probably use a Remedy or  
  
two to get the hard edge of his hangover off.  
  
"So, which way will you be heading?" I asked him. Plans such as these he often kept to   
  
himself, but given his current condition, he'd probably make an exception.  
  
"I think I'll stick to the original plan," he said, stumbling over his shoes as we made our way  
  
to the inn. "Head to Nikeah, then put out the vibe until something else comes my way."  
  
I nodded. "You must have realized by now that a Falcon may very well open up a brand new  
  
door of opportunity for all those entrepreneurs looking to capitalize on a more practical mode of  
  
transportation. Chocobos will probably become obsolete in the years to come."  
  
But my cohort appeared unerred. "I know," he said, "maybe it's about time for a career change.  
  
Seems to be a popular move these days. Maybe I'll become an airship pilot, just like Setzer  
  
What's-his-face."  
  
"Remind me never to do business with you."  
  
He grinned and shifted his head to take in the details of a large neon sign that stood in the  
  
windows of the tavern. Half of its letters were blacked out, but there was enough for us to make  
  
out the specials of the day:  
  
-To ay's Spe ials-  
  
6 H t Dogs For Th ee Gol P eces  
  
Sh imp S lad nd S eak « Pri e  
  
First D ink on the Hou e!!!  
  
"Man, that sounds heavy," my assistant remarked, "fifty-cent hot dogs and a free drink! What  
  
more could a man ask for?"  
  
'A new assistant', I felt like saying, but I was too hungry to argue with him. The establishment  
  
appeared as safe a harbor as any. Zozo would be the last place any Returner or Surf Chaser would  
  
bother to look for us. If Soa himself came down and offered to give me his philosophy on the one  
  
hundred and eight species of our planet, I'd put even him on hold. There was a time and place for  
  
everything, and now was a time to rest, to regroup.  
  
I suppose I should have expected the local pub to be devoid of life, but it still caught me off  
  
guard. It was more like wandering into a musty old library than a tavern. Every manner of  
  
condiment and bodily fluid seemed to stain the walls. The air trembled as if from a brawl that had  
  
ensued the night before. That, at least, would have accounted for the broken glass, not to mention  
  
a tankard that was out cold on the floor when we first stepped in.  
  
Off in some secluded corner of the establishment, there sat a gray man in frayed clothing who,  
  
every now and then, would mutter something about the Serpent Trench. My heart immediately  
  
went out to him. I felt like buying him a drink. On the other end of some very blurry looking  
  
glass, I could actually see myself winding up like that.  
  
"Used to be a Doman sentry," said the waitress, idly rinsing a mug with her apron. "Says a  
  
thing or two about his comrades every now and then. No one believes him of course, but he don't  
  
care. Doesn't pay much attention to anyone else half the time anyway."  
  
"A Doman sentry?!" My mind wrestled vehemently with the idea. "Hornswaggler! Sure, they  
  
were all killed off by Kefka before the Ruination."  
  
"So they had you believe." He turned in my direction, and I found that his eyes were clouded  
  
with cataracts. "The bastard got his fill, though. Took my sight, he did."  
  
My eyes never left the haggard Doman.  
  
"The poison did that?"  
  
"Indeed it did, good sir. There are days when I wish it took the rest of me, too."  
  
My assistant, oblivious as ever, made his order while the waitress labored to get it all down on  
  
a leaf of foolscap. It wasn't long after that I followed suit, being sure to include at least one drink  
  
for our sight-challenged friend. The derelict could have just as easily have been the kook which  
  
everyone made him out to be, but like everyone else he needed someone to talk to, if only for a  
  
little while.  
  
"I'd be willing to do you a favor," I told him, my hand wandering for my stylus. "You see, I  
  
am but a humble journalist, Lothar Goldfist by reputation. But I'm also quite adept in writing  
  
correspondences, in your case for Doma. If there's a liaison that strikes a chord with you, I'd be  
  
more than willing to send him word of your situation. Maybe you'll be venerated."  
  
The eyeless man threw back his drink and gestured for a second. I nodded to the waitress.  
  
"T'would be for naught, kind sir. You of all people should know that Doma has fallen."  
  
To that, my assistant scoffed and said, "You're pretty funny for a guy with no eyes."  
  
I nudged him, and he was silent.  
  
"Well, surely your hearing hasn't betrayed you," I replied. "Word travels fast about Doma,  
  
especially since it regrouped under Cyan."  
  
"Retainer Cyan?!" The old man seemed choked with tears. "He lives, then!"  
  
"We last spoke only a few days ago."  
  
"Well, then . . ." I could tell he was emotional. News of Doma, even good news, came to him  
  
as a critical blow. "I suppose I'm . . . all turned around on your offer then! I believe there was a . .  
  
. yes, a sentry! We knew each other quite well. His name is Ziegfried."  
  
"Ziegfried, you say?!" My assistant practically choked on a mouthful of hot dog. "This is your  
  
day, friend. We, too, know that very same man! And who shall I say your message is from?"  
  
"Tell him it's from Artemis." He drank his second drink more slowly, as if he wanted the  
  
experience to last. "Soldier 3A, first battalion. He'll know what that means."  
  
I nodded and smiled. Our excursion to South Figaro had not been a lame fuckaround after all.  
  
* * *  
  
An hour or so before dawn, our morning in Zozo ended. My assistant had begun to feel wildly  
  
attracted to our waitress after a pint or so of Red Chocobo clouded his mind, making him feel as  
  
though everything were suddenly so beautiful. I took him by the shoulders and hastily fled the  
  
place, assuring our Doman warhorse that his ascribed message was as good as sent. The old man  
  
smiled and tipped an empty glass in our direction.  
  
Two hours later, my assistant woke up screaming alongside me, in a coach I had managed to  
  
salvage from a Zozo livery. At first, he complained that he didn't know who I was, then that he  
  
didn't know who 'he' was! It ended when he said he felt like flapjacks and, with none to be found,  
  
remained quiet for the rest of the trip to the pier. With renewed impatience, I gave another crack  
  
on the reins. Our chocobos warked and quickened their pace.  
  
The pier - and what a beautiful pier it was! - cropped up over the horizon a short time later,  
  
with nothing beyond it but ocean. There was but a single sailing frigate tied up to port. Its sails  
  
were badly damaged and its passengers were restless from my assistant's delay. Ironic. The others  
  
had been waiting for him to ship out and I had been waiting for him to ship off.  
  
"Hey yo!" he called out, waving to the skipper. The portly man on deck waved back in  
  
acknowledgment as my assistant threw his duffle over a shoulder.  
  
"Hey, listen," I said to him, "Ziegfried will probably be on the other end. I got a message from  
  
him saying that he might be in Nikeah. If you see him-"  
  
"Yeah, I know." He readied himself to cross the gangplank. "Pass word of Artemis on to him,  
  
right? Christ, man! You can damn near set your watch to all this journalism crap!"  
  
I smiled. "Don't take any guff from the swine. If you have any trouble, remember - you can  
  
always send a carrier pigeon to the right people."  
  
He smiled back at me. "Sure, that makes sense. Spread the word from east to west, aye? Some  
  
asshole wrote a play about that once. Might have been good advice if he had shit for brains."  
  
With that, he tossed me his kitbag, which was empty except for a single flask of ether.  
  
Without waiting for a response on my part, he turned tail and shambled up the gangplank,  
  
laughing as though he had just played some cruel trick on me.  
  
And off he went, probably never to be seen again. His legacy, on the other hand, had more  
  
than left its mark. So puissant and unavoidable, it could very well derail the very Phantom Train  
  
itself. The man was a monster, a chocobo that no rancher, however prized, could hope to breed in  
  
his lifetime. Too weird to live and too rare to die.  
  
Just like me.  
  
* * *  
  
We're all wired into a survival trip now, no more of the sword-and-shield dreams that fueled  
  
the Imperial Era. That was probably the fatal flaw that Banon had faced with his many Returner  
  
factions. They would crash from one corner of the world to the next, selling the illusion of peace,  
  
and classlessness, without ever giving a thought to the long-term repercussions his movement  
  
would have on those who actually paid him any attention. All of those pathetically eager Surf  
  
Chasers who sought understanding at the bottoms of ether flasks and the burnt-out ends of  
  
Reagen tokes.  
  
And what of the future one might ask, the history of things to come? Are we truly doomed to  
  
an endless cycle of senseless and deadly mistakes? Or can that cycle be broken, so that each of us  
  
may find our own personal 'Marandian Dream'? The true battle of good and evil is over now, it  
  
seems, or at least until yesterday begins anew . . . tomorrow.  
  
* * *  
  
The road home lay just ahead of me, a flatout, fifteen-mile burn southeast, down past the  
  
Opera House and back to Maranda. I could already hear all those Marandian-born bookies  
  
placing bets on the next dog fight, and Lola searching the commons for a potential mate to start  
  
over with. Oblivion was calling, and I knew what that meant. No more virulent tirades with imps,  
  
moogles, or the Returner folk ever again. No more musing over hallucinations with your favorite  
  
Surf Chaser. And, most notably, no more narcotics.  
  
It was then that I took the flask of ether into my hand, knowing fully well what my assistant  
  
had intended it for. He knew. He knew only too well. He wouldn't be coming back, either. 'That  
  
son of a bitch', I thought, and began throwing the stuff back for all-time sake. And for one last  
  
time, my heart was filled with joy and purpose. One mad crack of the reins set those wonderful  
  
beasts in motion. I felt like a monster reincarnation of Lord Kefka himself: crazed; emphatic; and  
  
with a mission to accomplish . . .  
  
~ THE END ~ 


End file.
